


The Education Of Sherlock Holmes

by DaviesInTheMaking



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaviesInTheMaking/pseuds/DaviesInTheMaking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a question for Sherlock but he doesn't realize that the detective has questions of his own. It's good, trust me. Lots of violence, lots of sex. Johnlock, Sheriarty, all the good. PLEASE READ IT</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Question Number One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Dear People of this website. This is my first posting on this site and I do hope you enjoy it. This story involves Sherlock being sick, drugged, shot, drugged, raped, drugged, and falling in love. Please read and comment and enjoy.

Author’s Note: This is my first Sherlock fan fiction, so if the dialogue and movements don’t quite fit the characters, I am terribly sorry. I know I should be working on my Doctor Who/Supernatural fanfic, but I thought of this conversation and I just had to write this. 

“Sherlock, can I ask you something?” John asked hesitantly, sitting across from his friend at their table in Angelo’s and poking at his tuna sandwich and chips.  
“You just did,” Sherlock replied impassively, not turning his attention from the window.  
“What—Can I ask you something else?” John asked, trying again.  
“Was that what you wanted to ask?” Sherlock replied, turning his head to smirk at John, a mischievous glint in his blue-green eyes.  
“Look—Stop it,” John said, his voice tired with a hint of annoyance.  
Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together a bit in concern at his friend’s tone.  
“Okay, John,” he said, his voice gentle and polite. “What is it you wanted to ask?”  
“What, you don’t already know what I’m gonna ask?” John said nervously.  
“Your awkward tone and demeanor says that your question has something to do with sex, the most common sex question being the age at which a person lost his or her virginity, but I thought I’d let you ask yourself so as to give you a sense of control, albeit a rather illusionary one,” Sherlock said mechanically, his eyes locked on John’s, the look in them almost apologetic.  
“So…?” John said after a moment. “Are you gonna answer my question?”  
“In the course of this conversation, I’ve only heard you ask three questions, four counting the one you just asked. I answered the first, followed the second with a question of my own, gave an explanation for the third, and now I am in the process of answering the fourth by explaining that I have not yet heard a question that I have not answered,” Sherlock said in the same machine tone, cocking his head a bit to the side and looking innocently at his friend.  
John just looked disbelievingly at his insufferable friend for a moment before he signed and, not looking at the other man, asked, “At what age did you…lose your virginity?”  
“Never.”  
John’s blue eyes shot up to Sherlock’s, a look of apathy in his aquamarine eyes.   
“Wait, what?” John asked, unable to believe he’d heard right.  
“Oh, now you’re entering the shock area that most people go through when they receive alarming news,” Sherlock said understandingly.  
“You’re a virgin?” John asked, eyes wide, mind blown.  
“That’s what I implied, yes,” Sherlock confirmed calmly. “And I would appreciate it if you would keep that information out of your blog. I really don’t need Donovan harassing me about it.”  
“You’re a virgin?”  
“I will never understand why people insist on asking the same question over and over again,” Sherlock bemoaned. “I mean, do you think the answer is going to change the more you ask?”  
“No, it’s just…kind of surprising,” John said, still trying to get his mind around the thought of Sherlock Holmes being a virgin.  
“Why should the fact that I still possess my virginity be surprising?” Sherlock asked uncomprehendingly.   
“Because you’re so smooth and dashing and—and it’s just kind of hard to believe that anyone as handsome as you would still be a virgin,” John explained nervously.  
Sherlock just looked clinically at the uneasy doctor for a moment before saying, “John, while I’m complimented by your attraction to me—”  
“I’m not—” John interrupted, starting to protest.  
“I still don’t—It’s quite remarkable how nothing changes, wouldn’t you agree?” the detective said, interrupting John before interrupting himself.  
“Um, what?” John asked, baffled by the change in the conversational direction.  
“Ever since the dawn of man, females have always drifted more towards males that are the tallest, strongest, most attractive, and even now in this technological age, people still move towards the people they find most physically attractive,” Sherlock explained. “And since I am taller, smarter, more attractive, and have better hair then most everyone, you feel that I would be the subject of numerous relationship proposals—which I am—but that doesn’t mean that I’ve actually accepted any of the said proposals.”  
“Why not?” John asked, still a bit confused.  
“One: if I were to have a sexual relationship, I would want it to be with someone as smart as I am or close to my intelligence level, and so far the only person I’ve met with that kind of intelligence is Mycroft and I would rather dig his eyes out of his skull than have a relationship with him—”  
“Wait, don’t you mean your own eyes?”  
“Why would I dig my own eyes out?” Sherlock asked in confusion. “If I did that, then no one would ever get to look at my eyes ever again. I would never deprive the world like that. Anyway, two: I’ve never had the inclination or seen the point.”  
“Wait, you’ve never seen the point in sex?” John asked incredulously.  
Sherlock merely looked at the other man disapprovingly, his eyes saying, ‘Really, John? I am not going to repeat myself.’  
“How have you never seen the point in sex?” John asked, moving on from his previous question.  
“Because it’s always the same,” the detective replied exasperatedly. “Since the dawn of time, the same act has been carried out over and over and over and for some reason, people still find the act to be appealing.”  
“Well, of course people find it appealing,” John said matter-of-factly. “And it’s not always the same. I mean, people aren’t the same.”  
“But the fundamental act itself is merely the same thing being carried out over and over. And aside from the obvious boredom of repetition, I don’t see how it can be at all comfortable. Sex is just being stabbed with a hard, hot thing or stabbing someone else with a hard, hot thing. I just don’t see the appeal of it.”  
Seeing that his friend was, in fact, confused about what the point of sex could possibly be, John swallowed his shock and hesitantly said, “Well, um…some people have sex to have children, some do it for pleasure—”  
“Yes, but how is it pleasurable?” Sherlock demanded impatiently.  
“Well…umm…It, um, it—it makes people feel good,” John stammered, a blush rising in his cheeks, eyes looking anywhere but the detective who seemed incapable of social awkwardness, or any other kind of awkwardness for that matter.  
“But how?” Sherlock demanded again. “What, specifically, feels good during sex? What could feel so good that it makes people continue to engage in intercourse?”  
“Umm, well, u-umm… It, umm, it—Do you seriously not know?” John asked, hoping to avoid as much of the conversation as he could.  
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,” Sherlock said, perfectly comfortable. “And that’s another thing; why are people made so uncomfortable by discussions involving sex?”  
“Because it’s kind of a private matter,” John said, face still burning.  
“But everyone knows about it and does the same basic thing, so why should it be awkward to talk about?”  
“Because it… What two people do together is no one’s business but their own and people don’t really like others knowing the extent of their personal life.”  
“Hm,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, hands pressed together vertically, chin resting on his thumbs.  
John took the opportunity to return to his sandwich and chips while the other man processed what John thought of as common sense like it was a complex scientific equation.  
“You still haven’t answered my previous question,” Sherlock eventually said, fingers folded together, chin atop his hands. “What is it that makes sex so pleasurable? How does it feel good? And yes, I am aware of the biology involved with sexual intercourse, but it’s not really the same as hearing about it from someone who has engaged in sexual activity.”  
John squirmed in his seat while Sherlock looked at him like he would a particular interesting specimen.   
“Well, um, it—it feels good because… Um... Well, it just does.” John struggled to explain without getting too specific, lest his face start burning again. “I don’t think you can really understand how it feels until you’ve done it.”  
The detective’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he folded his arms on the table, gazing out the window.  
“I could help you if you want,” John offered.   
Sherlock’s eyes immediately shot to the doctor’s, more than a slight amount of alarm and confusion darkening his usually calm and confident eyes.  
“John,” he said carefully, “as I’ve previously stated, while I’m flattered, I just don’t think that—”  
“No, no, no, god, no,” John interrupted hurriedly, realizing what he’d said. “I didn’t mean me, I just… I meant, maybe I could help you find someone. I mean, if you want.”  
“You think I should get into a relationship just for the sexual activity?” Sherlock asked, eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion.   
“No, I just…think you might be happier with a partner,” John explained, his voice careful.  
“Aren’t you my partner?” the detective asked, again tilting his head to the side.  
“I meant like a boyfriend or a girlfriend.”  
“You said boyfriend or girlfriend despite the fact that the first time we came here, I told you girls weren’t my area. The only reason you would do that would be because you acknowledge the fact that I’m mysterious enough to most people that even though I said what I did, I could very well be willing to have a girlfriend when, in actuality, the opposite is true and I meant what I said when I claimed that girls weren’t my area.”  
“Okay. So… I could help you get a boyfriend, then, if you want.”  
“I don’t,” Sherlock replied, looking over John’s shoulder.  
“Don’t what?” John asked, confused.  
“I don’t want you to try to get me a boyfriend,” Sherlock clarified, idly stroking his lower lip with his index finger.  
“Well, okay, then,” John said acceptingly, going back to his food.   
“But I still want to know how sexual intercourse gives a person pleasure,” the detective said, still not looking at his friend.  
“Oh. Well, I don’t see how you’re going to do that if you don’t get a boyfriend,” John said in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing a bit.   
“You could tell me,” Sherlock suggested, finally looking at the doctor, eyebrows raised a bit.  
“Look, I can’t explain to you how sex feels,” John said, exasperated.  
“Why not?”  
“Because…there are just some feelings that you just can’t put into words.”  
“Try.”  
John sighed deeply and thought for a moment before locking gazes with Sherlock and slowly saying, “Sex with the right person is…unlike anything else. It’s wonderful and spectacular and every touch sends a little bold of electricity through you and—”  
“Sexual intercourse causes electrocution?” Sherlock asked, confused.  
“Not literal electricity, Sherlock,” John clarified. “It’s just…with the right person, every touch gives you immense pleasure and…just gives you a kind of ecstasy that you can’t get anywhere else.”  
“What about if it’s not with the right person?” Sherlock asked curiously after a bit.  
“If it’s not with the right person, then it’s still…fun because, you know, the human body just biologically responds to certain things.”  
“Like what?”  
“Like… Umm…Like, you know…kissing and—and, umm…the stroking of certain places and the application of pressure to certain places,” John stammered, his cheeks once again turning bright red.  
Sherlock looked at the doctor curiously for a moment, examining his friend’s blush and awkward demeanor.   
“But, you know, if you haven’t experienced it, it’s kind of confusing,” John said with a forced casualness, shrugging and shaking his head slightly to banish his blush.  
The detective intertwined his fingers, elbows on the table, and placed his chin on his thumbs, his nose just above his other fingers.  
“Still sleeping on the sofa, huh?” Sherlock said after a few minutes, looking over John’s shoulder.  
“What?” John asked in surprise, pushing away his empty plate.  
“The only reason you would have for starting this entire conversation would be if Sarah asked you at what age you lost your virginity. And given the fact that the awkwardness and embarrassment in your tone suggests that you lost your virginity at a late age—nineteen, I’m guessing—that would mean that, despite her many benefits, she was shocked at the fact that you took so long to lose your virginity. Her reaction made you both uncomfortable, which resulted in you sleeping on her couch again.”  
Before John even had a chance to respond, Sherlock’s phone rang, the tone shrill and slightly annoying.  
“Lestrade,” Sherlock said into the phone, his eyes locked on John’s. He listened for a while before replying, “Okay, we’ll be there soon.”  
“New case?” John asked, glad for the distraction.  
“Yup,” Sherlock replied simply, pulling on his coat, scarf and gloves.  
“Where?” John asked as they left the restaurant, knowing Angelo would refuse payment.  
“Birmingham,” Sherlock said, raising his arm for a cab.  
A taxi pulled up and John followed the detective in, his mind still reeling from their conversation, wondering why the seemingly asexual detective would be so interested in sex and what exactly would come of this interest.


	2. The Case Is On

Hello, one and all, to another chapter of The Education of Sherlock Holmes. First of all, I would like to say thank you to FrankandJoe3 for your lovely comment and everyone else who favourited/followed me. This story was originally meant to be a one-shot, but it just ended up turning into a full-length thing. I don’t really know how long this is gonna end up being, so bear with me on this.

Chapter 2: The Case Is On

When they got to the crime scene, John had to stop and stare in shock, struggling to keep his earlier meal from coming back up.  
A girl of approximately eight years was flat on her back on the pavement, her little body cut open as if an autopsy had been conducted here in the car park. Her body had been opened up with an incision going from her sternum all the way down to her pelvic bone. Muscle and flesh had been sliced so as to allow the killer to take the thick layers of skin and fold them out, half covering her small, pale arms. Her long brown hair was dirty and matted and smelled of the sewer. Her once lively blue eyes were dulled and clouded, staring at nothing.  
John wanted to run away from the horror of such a murder and the stench of rotting flesh and God knows what else, but out of respect, he stayed standing, forcing himself to continue looking at the young girl whose life had been so brutally shortened.  
Sherlock, of course, was already crouched beside the girl, examining her body and breathing normally, as if unaffected by any of it (which he probably wasn’t), Lestrade standing above him, his hand over his nose and mouth in an attempt to block out the stench.  
“Are you going to stand there all day, John?” Sherlock called, not looking away from the girl.  
The doctor slowly walked up to the detective and crouched beside him, breathing through his mouth to try to block the smell.   
“What do you see?” Sherlock asked John without looking at him.  
“The most horrid and inhumane atrocity I’ve ever seen in my life,” John said, a large, sharp rock of sympathy lodging itself in his chest.   
“A little less melodrama, please,” Sherlock said simply, his eyes curiously traveling the girl’s desecrated body.   
John sighed and struggled to turn off the emotional part of his mind. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”  
“Why?”  
“Because this incision was done with a surgical precision,” John explained, knowing the detective was already ten steps ahead of him. “The muscle and tendons were cut just enough to separate them from the flesh, but not deep enough to damage anything. You don’t use that kind of precision unless you know what you’re doing.”  
“Or unless you watch police shows and read medical books,” Sherlock said, looking intently at his doctor.  
“Is that what the killer did?” John asked, turning his head to look quizzically at the detective.  
“I don’t know, is it?” Sherlock asked back, wanting to push John and make him think.  
“No,” John said decisively after a moment, looking back at the body. “The cuts are perfectly smooth, which says that the killer not only had surgical tools, but has had experience with death and violence before, which suggests that he or she could be a medical examiner.”  
John turned again to see Sherlock smiling happily at him.  
“What?” John asked, made slightly uneasy by his partner’s expression.  
“You just looked at a body and deduced that the killer is a medical examiner,” Sherlock said, still smiling. “Good job.”  
“Um, thanks,” John said, shocked by the fact that the brilliant Sherlock Holmes was praising him for his skill.  
“What else?” Sherlock asked, all business again, turning back to the body.  
“Umm…” John slowly moved his eyes up and down the body, struggling to see what Sherlock saw.  
“What’s missing?” Sherlock hinted.  
“Her clothes?” John guessed without thinking.  
Sherlock just rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, John, but what else?”  
John looked inside the girl’s body, searching as hard as he could and finally noticing something.  
“Hey, can I get a pair of gloves?” he called over his shoulder while Sherlock continued to look at the body.  
A random female officer brought John his gloves and the doctor quickly snapped them on, leaning over the girl’s body, bringing his face inches from the left side of her rib cage, gently prodding and jiggling her ribs and the ligaments around them.  
“Her heart’s been removed,” John concluded after examining a while longer.  
“How can you tell?” Lestrade asked, still standing a bit behind the two men, looking over their shoulders. “And how’s that even possible? Her ribs are intact.”  
“You don’t need to cut the ribs to get to the heart,” John explained, half turning to the other man while pointing things out in the girl’s body, “you just need to separate them with a Finochietto retractor, another reason why the killer is an ME.” He added the last while looking knowingly at Sherlock.  
“Or just a surgeon of some sort,” the detective replied, looking back at his partner, chin resting in steepled fingers.  
“But wouldn’t the ribs break if you tried to separate them?” Lestrade asked, confused.  
“The ligaments allow bones to be stretched a certain distance without breaking,” John said clinically. “Surgeons do this sort of thing when performing heart surgery, and after the surgery, the ribs are gently moved back in place.”  
“Where’s her mother?” Sherlock asked the Detective Inspector, lightly touching the girl’s hair with his fingertips.  
“At home,” Lestrade replied. “How did you know we’d already identified her?”  
“Oh, please,” Sherlock replied, finally turning and looking at Lestrade in frustration. “An eight-year-old girl goes missing, the mother doesn’t stop until every policeman in the country is looking for her. Eight-year-old girl is found brutally murdered, nearly every policeman is able to identify her because they’ve had her image and name drilled into their heads either by their superior or the mother herself, so where, specifically, is she now?”  
“2032 Hamilton Drive,” Lestrade replied, slightly edgy. “The mother’s name is Sally Brooke, the girl’s name is Renette.”  
“Good,” Sherlock said as he stood up and strode out of the car park, coat billowing at his calves, John and Lestrade right behind him.  
“What, that’s it, you’re just gonna leave?” Lestrade demanded as Sherlock raised his arm for a cab.  
“I’ve given you everything you need to continue the investigation,” Sherlock replied as a cab pulled up. “We’ve told you the killer’s got an occupation as an ME or a surgeon, you can take it from there. Really, Lestrade,” he said as he got into the cab next to John, “I don’t have the time to lead you by the hand every step of the way. Think for yourself for once.”  
With that, he closed the door, gave the cabbie the address, and sat back with a sigh.  
“You could’ve put that a bit more gently,” John said, looking calmly at the detective.   
“If being able to function in social situations means I would have to mollycoddle every imbecile who doesn’t use their brain, then trust me, I would much rather remain a high-functioning sociopath,” Sherlock replied distractedly, looking out the window, his elbow on the windowsill, fingers once again stroking his lower lip.  
“He’s got a hard job,” John said fairly. “He’s the one that has to deal with the press and paperwork.”  
“He’s got Donovan to do that for him.”  
“Still, you might wanna give him a break. I mean, he was probably the one who had to break the news to the girl’s mum.”  
“Hasn’t been done,” Sherlock said simply, eyes on the world rushing by.  
“What?”  
“When I mentioned the mother, Lestrade was uncomfortable, even guilty, which means he didn’t tell her because he knew that I would want to go talk to her. Probably wanted to let someone less capable of feeling sympathy ‘break the news’.”  
“Well, this isn’t going to be pleasant,” John said anxiously.  
“John, will you… I don’t really know the proper way to tell her,” Sherlock said hesitantly, finally looking at John.  
“I don’t think there is a proper way to tell someone that a loved one has died,” the doctor replied, eyes and voice sad with the knowledge of how cruel and unfair the world can be.  
“How should I tell her?” Sherlock asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice and eyes.  
“How would you tell her?” John asked curiously. “What would you say?”  
“Your daughter is dead.”  
“That’s it? Just, ‘Your daughter is dead’?”  
“What else is there to say, John?” Sherlock asked, slightly exasperated.  
“Just… Let me do the talking,” John said, sighing at the thought of what he was about to do.  
Sherlock sat back heavily and stared out the window, the rest of the ride passing in a heavy silence.

So, what do you guys think? Should I write out the whole case or just skip to the mush? I can go either way (like John). And, by the way, all the medical shit is accurate and if it’s not and you have a problem with it, well, bite me. Please comment and tell me what you think. Huggles to you all.


	3. What Hell Really Is

Chapter 3: What Hell Really Is

Sherlock and John walked up the steps of the brick townhouse and John grudgingly knocked on the door while Sherlock stood next to him with an air of apathy.  
“I really don’t wanna do this,” John confessed to his friend.  
“Why?” Sherlock asked in genuine curiosity, looking at his doctor.  
Before John could answer, the door slowly opened and the two men were faced with a woman who looked like she’d seen Hell and had barely escaped.  
Sally Brooke was an emaciated, haggard version of what had once been a probably beautiful woman. Her blue eyes, matching her daughter’s, were sunken and watery, slightly bloodshot from hours of crying. Her long brown hair was tied back in a hasty ponytail and her skin looked like it had been pulled taut with it. Days of worrying had made her cheekbones prominent and her collar bone looked as if it would tear through her pale skin. Her entire person, from her barely-alive eyes to her thin arms crossed protectively over her chest to her rumpled jeans, t-shirt, and jumper gave off an aura of hopelessness, desperation, misery, and fear.  
“Can I help you?” she croaked before attempting to clear her throat.  
“Yes, um, Mrs Brooke, I’m Doctor John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for the Scotland Yard,” John said nervously, struggling to not look away from the desperate woman’s eyes.  
“Oh, yes, they told me that they were going to contact you,” Sally Brooke said emotionlessly, her voice clear and tired. “Come in, then.”  
The two men followed her into the foyer and to the right into a plush little sitting room themed in red and gold with two sofas, an armchair, a nice telly, and a modest piano in the corner. The walls were awash with photos of Sally Brooke and her daughter at the zoo, at the pool, on holiday. A room that had probably felt familiar and warm and loving now felt like an empty shell, absent of everything that made it what it was.  
Sally gestured for Sherlock and John to sit on one of the sofas before shakily lowering herself into the armchair and angling it so that she could look at the two men, the chair a mere two feet from the sofa.   
“Have they found her yet?” she asked without much hope, retrieving a much-loved stuffed dog form the floor and petting it, her hands on her eyes.  
“Yes, we have found her. In a manner of speaking,” John added quickly as a wonderful, powerful hope rushed into Sally’s eyes, her head jerking up to the doctor.   
“What do you mean, ‘in a manner of speaking’?” she asked guardedly.  
John kicked Sherlock when the detective started to speak and continued. “Um… Look, Mrs Brooke—”  
“Ms,” Ms Brooke corrected in an automatically sharp tone, dread and fear rising in her eyes.  
“Ms Brooke,” John said cautiously. “Umm… I know this is a hard time for you and I can’t imagine what you must be going through—”  
“Your daughter’s dead,” Sherlock interrupted almost impatiently.  
Sally froze. She didn’t speak, move, blink, or breathe for about a minute before she took a slow, shaky breath and blinked a couple of times.  
“I’m sorry?” she asked in a small, slightly squeaky voice of disbelief.  
“Your daughter, Renette, was murdered,” Sherlock stated before John could respond, his voice full of apathy. “She was cut open and her heart was removed and—”  
“Shut up.” Sally’s voice was quiet and deadly, her eyes almost unnaturally wide.   
“We need to know if you know of any—”  
“Shut up,” Sally said again, beginning to shake.  
“Anyone that may—”  
“Shut up!!” Sally screeched at Sherlock, jumping up and glaring at the detective, her eyes wide and pouring tears, cheeks flushed with rage, shaking fists clenched by her sides. “Just shut up! You’re lying to me! She can’t be dead! She can’t be!! My little girl, she can’t be dead!”  
“Ms Brooke,” John said carefully, standing up and holding his hands out to her. “I know this is hard to believe—”  
“Why are you lying to me?! Why haven’t you found her yet?! I just want my baby!!” Sally yelled, sobs shaking her body.  
“Your child is dead, Ms Brooke,” Sherlock said harshly, standing up next to John. “We just came from examining her body. Your daughter is gone and you will never see her alive again.”  
Sally just stood there for a moment and stared at the two men, tears flowing down her face, her chin trembling. Then, as if she were a puppet whose strings had been cut, she collapsed onto the ground.  
“Aaaaahhh!!!!” she cried out, grief ripping its way out of her throat and digging its claws into John’s heart.   
“My baby!! My little Renette!!! NOOOOOO!!!!” she screamed in agony as John knelt down and put his arms around her, tears of sadness and sympathy leaking out of his own eyes.  
For what seemed like forever, John sat there and held the heartbroken woman while Sherlock merely stood behind John and studied Sally curiously. 

 

“You couldn’t have put that more delicately?” John demanded angrily, slamming the door as he followed Sherlock into their flat.  
“Well, you weren’t going to tell her,” Sherlock replied calmly, taking off his coat, scarf, and gloves and going to flop down onto the sofa.  
“I was working up to that!” John exclaimed irritably, walking over to stand in front of the couch and glare at the cold, emotionless man who seemed incapable of showing sympathy.  
“You were beating around the bush,” the detective said, his eyes closed, hands pressed together as if in prayer, fingers beneath his chin.   
“I was just…trying to make it easier for her to hear,” John said tiredly, sitting down in his chair and rubbing a hand across his face.   
“Her daughter’s dead, John. I don’t think any amount of mollycoddling is going to help.”  
“Huh,” John said curiously.  
“What?” Sherlock asked without opening his eyes.  
“That almost sounded like you cared,” John said in surprise.  
Sherlock just scoffed at the doctor. “I just don’t know why people insist on being ‘delicate’ with matters of importance.”  
“So it’s easier to hear for the one receiving the news.”  
“But it’s the same news no matter how it’s received.”  
“Yes, but if it’s delivered delicately, then it feels more like sliding off a ramp and less like falling through a trap door,” John explained, trying to verbalize things he found to be common sense.  
“My theory is the father,” Sherlock said, signalling the end of the conversation.  
“Why?” John asked exasperatedly, resting the side of his head in his hand, elbow on the arm of the chair.  
“Patches.”  
“What?” John asked, confused.  
“Nicotine patches,” Sherlock clarified, opening his eyes and turning his head to John, nodding to his bedroom door.   
John sighed in frustration and got up to go to the detective’s bathroom. He retrieved a box of the patches and came back into the living room, tossing the box at the other man. Sherlock caught the box easily and set it on the floor while he rolled up his sleeve. He placed three patches on his arm and closed his eyes, sighing and laying his arm down at his side, his free arm across his torso.  
“So?” John asked after watching the detective go through this ritual.  
“So, what?” Sherlock asked, his voice slower and more relaxed, eyes still closed.  
“So, are you going to tell me why the father is the killer?”  
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said after a moment, as if just remembering what he’d said. “Think about it, John. Ms Brooke was quick to correct you when you assumed she was married—well, the second time, anyway, since the first time you said it, her brain was too muddled to process the mistake—and there was no one else living there.”  
“So, they got a divorce,” John said, failing to see the point.  
“If it was just a divorce, then he still would’ve been there so that they could help each other through their child’s disappearance. And there were no pictures of him on the walls anywhere. No, it wasn’t a divorce. There’s anger there, hostility. There was a pale ring of skin around her ring finger, indicating that they’d been married for years. Getting a divorce is one thing, but the only reason to remove all traces of him would be that she wanted to forget him. There was a disgust and indignation in her voice when she corrected you, so he had an affair with a woman younger and prettier than her about, oh, two years ago, judging by the amount of disgust and indignation. So he was living with them for about six years, he knew the layout of the house. He knows Sally won’t let him in, so he goes there when Sally’s not there, but Renette is, and tells her he’s going to take her to the cinema or the zoo. She doesn’t know what’s going on, her mum never told her, so she still trusts her father, so she goes with him. He knocks her out, kills her somewhere, quite possibly the morgue in which he works, keeps her body hidden for a few days to let Sally suffer, and then plants her body in the car park.”  
John was silent for a moment before saying in admiration, “I never get tired of you doing that.”  
Sherlock just smiled a small, happy and flattered smile.   
“But how do you know he works in a morgue?”  
The detective dug something out of his pocket and flicked it onto the coffee table. John walked over and picked it up.

 

‘Martin Brooke, undertaker extraordinaire   
2567 Moffat Ln. 020 7861 8530  
Treating your loved ones with the care  
They deserve’

“’Undertaker extraordinaire’?” John read off the business card. “Bit pompous for an undertaker.”  
“Mm,” came the reply from the sofa.  
“But how do you know it’s the ex? It could—”  
“It’s not her father.”  
“How do you know?”  
“Along with the disgust and indignation, there was a hint of anxiety and her body tensed up, indicating that she was afraid of him. Not enough to say that he hit her, just enough to say that she was scared of what he did.”  
“So, do we tell Lestrade or go check it out ourselves?”  
Sherlock gave him a disappointed ‘Really?’ look.  
“Right, check it out ourselves, then,” John said.  
“Right you are, John,” Sherlock said before leaping off the sofa and bolting to get his coat, gloves, and scarf, John right on his heels.


	4. Revelations

‘Ello, my lovelies, here is another chapter for your enjoyment. As always, a massive thank you to FrankandJoe3 for being so amazingly awesome. And thank you to everyone else for following and favouriting me. There will be some Johnlockiness in this chapter, but no mush yet. Just be patient and it’ll come.

Chapter 4: Revelations

Given that Martin Brooke’s flat and business were a lot farther away than the crime scene and Sally Brooke’s flat, Sherlock and John had to take the Tube, much to Sherlock’s chagrin.  
“Why do you hate the Tube so much?” John asked as they walked to the station.  
“I resent having to be surrounded by small-minded idiots for any length of time,” Sherlock responded grouchily. “It’s why I generally avoid crowds of any kind.”  
When they were seated comfortably and the Tube began to move, both men fell into their own thoughts, Sherlock’s thoughts drifting to the doctor sitting beside him in the aisle seat. He looked at John’s reflection in the window and pulled out his mental file labelled ‘John’.   
Ever since they had met six months ago and John had moved in, Sherlock had been thinking things that made no sense, feeling things that he’d never felt before, things that worried him. Lately, whenever John smiled at him, he felt a strange, squirming sensation in his stomach that resembled nausea, but was more pleasant. Whenever John touched him, his skin tingled as if he had been blood deprived and something had sent his blood rushing again. What really startled him was the fact that he’d actually begun feeling bad whenever he upset or offended John.  
He had puzzled over these feelings for months and he had still reached no conclusion. He hadn’t been lying to John in the restaurant, he really was curious about how sex was pleasurable because he’d started to think that maybe his strange feelings had something to do with sex. But that didn’t make sense either, because he had never felt anything sexual for anyone in his entire life, so why should he feel such things for John Watson? In his desperate search for answers, he’d even briefly entertained and quickly dismissed the asinine notion of soul mates. True, he did feel a certain connection to the ex-army doctor, but the idea that there was one person in the entire world that you were destined to be with was so ludicrous that Sherlock couldn’t focus on it for very long without becoming nauseated by the idiocy.  
Turning his attention back to his file, he removed mental documents which consisted of instances of either him experiencing strange feelings or John expressing interest in him. Despite the doctor’s insistence that he was not interested, Sherlock could tell that the other man did feel something for him. It was there in his eyes, his words, his motions, the way he locked his lips around Sherlock. Sherlock could’ve told John that the more he insisted that he was not experiencing a physical attraction to the detective, the more obvious it was, but he hadn’t wanted to push the poor man… Which was another unusual thing. All his life, Sherlock had pushed people, deliberately making them uncomfortable with his knowledge with absolutely no regard for their feelings. So why should he care what John felt?  
Maybe he was ill. Perhaps he was suffering from some personality disorder. But, no, his physical health was perfect and he had no other symptoms consistent with personality disorders. So then why did he feel warm inside whenever John returned his text messages or acted concerned about him? Why was it that whenever his thoughts wandered, they wandered to John? Why did he get a little twinge of sadness whenever he upset John? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. If he was going to be attracted to people, wouldn’t it make more statistical sense for that to happen earlier in his life?  
He considered calling Mycroft, but quickly dismissed the idea, knowing that he would never again allow his brother to treat him like an invalid who required assistance. He had vowed long ago that he would never again let Mycroft know that he needed him for anything.  
So he would figure out the reasoning behind these feelings on his own. If he thought about it, it made sense that when two people live together, the two people would grow closer and since he’d never really had a flatmate or a friend, maybe that’s what he was feeling: friendship.  
His brow furrowed in frustration, knowing that explanation didn’t fully make sense. If he and John were simply growing closer as friends and flatmates, then why did he feel a near-constant tugging sensation in his stomach pulling him to the doctor? Why did he feel a warm tingling in his genitals whenever he happened to catch a glimpse of John shirtless? Why did he feel an irrational hatred of Sarah whenever John said he was going on an outing with her?   
Frustrated with his lack of progress, Sherlock put his mental documents back into the file and shoved the file back in place, deciding to come back to it later.

 

The rest of the Tube ride and the subsequent walk to the mortuary was spent in silence, making Sherlock think that John was lost in his own thoughts.  
When they arrived at the funeral home, they walked right into where the undertaker was grooming an old male corpse.  
Martin Brooke was a tall, strong man close in age to his ex-wife. His thick brown hair reached a little past his shoulders, his black suit jumper barely concealing muscles more suited to a rugby player. He sensed the two men behind him and turned to face them, his face finely sculpted aside from his bulky nose, his eyes pitch black, the pupils indistinguishable from the irises.   
“Hello, gentlemen,” he said, his voice as calm and oily as his smile. “What can I do for you today?”  
“I’m Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr John Watson. We’re here regarding your daughter.”  
“What do you mean, ‘regarding my daughter’? Is there something wrong with her?” Mr Brooke asked, his tone and the look in his eyes rapidly changing from confusion to panic and remaining on the latter.   
“Tell me, sir, is it possible to remove the heart without breaking the ribs?” Sherlock asked calmly, walking up to stand in front of the man.  
“What?” he demanded in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? Where’s my daughter? Is she okay?”  
“Do you have access to a Finochietto retractor?”  
“Look, I don’t have time for this,” Mr Brooke said, pulling out his phone.  
“Your daughter is dead,” Sherlock said harshly.  
Mr Brooke froze, his entire body and breath stilling, his eyes on his open phone.  
“But you already knew that, didn’t you?” Sherlock continued calmly. “You already knew she was dead and if I hadn’t known that already, then the blatant falseness in your voice and eyes would’ve made it clear. You’re a good liar, Mr Brooke, but nobody can lie to me.”  
“So the rumours are true,” Mr Brooke said, all traces of fear and panic gone, looking up at the detective and putting his phone away. “You are a cold, heartless genius.”  
“Why would you kill your own daughter?” John asked incredulously, standing a bit behind Sherlock and to the side.  
“Because then maybe that bitch of a mother would get some sense knocked into her,” Brooke said, his voice harsh and full of aggression.   
“Wait, sorry, you had an affair and she’s the one that needs to be punished?”  
“She was the one who demanded the divorce,” Sherlock explained calmly, smiling slightly. “He didn’t want to divorce, but she tricked him into signing divorce paper and kicked him out… Come on, John.”  
“What?” John asked in confusion as Sherlock turned and walked a bit towards the door.   
“We have all the information we need,” the detective explained. “Let’s go.”  
“You really think I’m gonna let you walk out of here?” Brooke said, pulling a gun from a drawer and pointing it at Sherlock. “There’s no one else here,” he said to John without looking at him. “Go for your phone, and I’ll shoot.”  
“But you’ll probably miss, since you’ve never fired a gun before,” Sherlock stated calmly, walking up to Brooke until the gun was pressed against his chest. “There. Now there’s no way that you’ll miss.”  
“Sherlock—” John said in a slightly panicked voice.  
“It’s all right, John,” the detective assured, not looking away from the man holding him at gunpoint.  
“Killing a little girl with chloroform is one thing, but killing a fully aware person by shooting them in the chest, well, that’s quite another. Could you really do that? Pull the trigger and watch me die in agony? But of course you are able to do that, you have to be so that you can prove your father wrong when he said that you weren’t a real man. His words have stayed with you your whole life and poisoned your actions, so that everything you did, you did to please him rather than yourself. But it’s gotten worse recently because your father’s dying and you’re desperate to hear him once say that he’s proud of you. That’s why you had the affair, because he told you that it was manly to be unfaithful to your wife. Because that’s what he was. He was unfaithful and abusive to others, so you thought that that was what being a man was. The bad news is he was wrong and you’re an idiot. But the good news is that you may still have a chance to redeem yourself in prison.”  
“I could do that,” Brooke said, anger and hatred in his voice as he cocked the gun. “Or I could just shoot you and then kill myself.”  
“Easy, John,” Sherlock said, holding out a cautionary hand as the doctor took a step forward.   
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you now,” Brooke said threateningly, the gun still pressed against the detective’s chest.  
“Because you want to keep your other foot.”  
“Wha—?”  
Before Brooke could finish the question, Sherlock shifted a leg, a loud bang sounded and the man doubled over in pain and surprise. Sherlock grabbed his gun and backed away beside John, both men pointing guns at Brooke.   
“You bastard!” Brooke gasped, clutching his foot while leaning back against the table.   
“Why does everyone always assume that my parents weren’t married when I was conceived?” Sherlock asked, looking at John without moving the gun.  
“Expression, Sherlock,” John said without looking at the detective.  
Brooke lunged forward in an attempt to get his gun back, but Sherlock quickly slammed the butt of the gun into the man’s temple, successfully knocking him out.   
“Come on, John,” Sherlock said again, tossing the gun onto the floor and turning to walk out the door.   
John paused to put his gun back into his jumper and followed the detective out of the funeral home.  
“Lestrade?” Sherlock said into his phone once they were on the sidewalk. “Yes, we’ve found the killer. It’s the mother’s ex-husband, Martin Brooke. He’s currently unconscious on the floor of the Brooke Funeral Home at 2567 Moffat Lane… Yes, we’ll be there. Lestrade wants us at the station,” he said to John after he hung up.  
“This is gonna be fun,” John remarked sarcastically, always dreading the paperwork part of a case.  
“Oh, it won’t be that bad,” Sherlock said confidently.  
John glanced at the other man, saw his cool and confident expression, and trusted him completely.

Okay, so I know that case was a bit short, but 1) I wasn’t really sure how to make it longer since I’m not as good as Steven Moffat, and 2) I figured that there are some cases that are easier than others, and 3) I got the impression that some of you wanted some mush and hurrying the case along will get to the mush sooner. Anyway, please comment and tell me what you think.


	5. The First Time

Chapter 5: The First Time.

After hours of John dealing with the tedious paperwork while Sherlock laid on a couch, the two men left Scotland Yard and took a taxi to a nearby Italian restaurant.   
“Are you actually going to order something this time?” John asked almost apathetically as he looked over the menu.  
“Why would I?” the detective asked, looking around the restaurant and drumming his fingers rapidly on the table.  
“When was the last time you ate something?”  
“What day is it?” Sherlock asked, looking briefly at John.  
“Monday,” John answered.  
“We finished our last case earlier today and we got that one last Friday, so…Friday morning,” Sherlock said, going back to looking around and drumming his fingers.  
“Last Fri—Sherlock, that’s over three days,” John said incredulously.  
“Congratulations, you can do primary school match,” Sherlock remarked drily.   
“Sherlock—” John started when the waiter came up to their table.  
“Are you gentlemen ready to order?”  
“I’ll have the Penne Rigate with Chicken and Broccoli and he’ll have the Chicken Florentina,” John said, ignoring the look of surprise on the detective’s face.  
“And will he be having soup or salad with that?” the waiter asked, also ignoring Sherlock.  
“What kind of soup do you have?”  
“Pasta Fagioli, Roasted Eggplant, and Baked Potato.”  
“He’ll have the Roasted Eggplant.”  
“Pasta or vegetables?” the waiter asked, scribbling on his notepad.  
“Angel hair pasta.”  
“And what about you? Soup or salad?”  
“Greek salad, please.”  
“What kind of dressing?”  
“Italian.”  
“Okay,” the waiter said, smiling and putting his pen back into his apron. “I’ll have that right out for you.”  
“What?” John asked after a bit in response to Sherlock’s curious and startled expression.  
“You ordered dinner for me,” Sherlock said calmly.  
“You haven’t eaten in three days,” John replied. “And I know that you don’t have any allergies because I called your brother last time I was at surgery.”  
A slow smile, pleased and playful, spread across Sherlock’s face.  
“What?” John asked again.  
“Nothing. I just… I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that,” Sherlock answered, shrugging and looking down at the table.  
“What about your parents and brother?” John asked, concern in his furrowed brow.  
Sherlock scoffed, not looking at the doctor. “My parents were always too busy to take care of us and Mycroft never took care of me because he felt that I should be able to take care of myself.”  
“What about when you were a baby?”  
“Mycroft and I had a babysitter who didn’t really want to be there,” Sherlock said bitterly.  
The two men were silent for a while, both of them looking at the table and processing what Sherlock had said.   
“Thank you,” Sherlock said eventually, looking over at the other people in the restaurant.  
‘For what?” John asked in surprise, shocked that Sherlock would actually be thanking him for something.  
“I know I’m not the…easiest person to live with,” the detective said, looking again at the table. “So I want to thank you for putting up with me and my tendencies to be insufferable and constantly point out my obviously superior intelligence.”  
“Umm, it’s no trouble,” John said after a moment, still trying to get his mind around what the supposedly cold, heartless man was saying. “I mean, if I couldn’t handle it, then I wouldn’t be here.”  
“You deserve to be treated better,” Sherlock continued, again looking out over the group of people.  
John gave a small exhalation of sarcastic laughter at how the man could never look at him when talking about anything resembling emotions, and took a drink of water.  
“I’ve upset you,” Sherlock said in concern, finally turning and looking at his doctor.  
John almost gasped aloud with the intense rush of emotion he felt as his eyes connected with Sherlock’s. As he looked into the detective’s magical and mysterious jade-and-sapphire eyes, John’s blood felt as if it were on fire, every part of him instantly heating up, his skin tingling with…desire? John tried to tell himself that he didn’t feel attracted to the detective, but his electrocuted nerves, dry mouth, and inability to look away from the other man told him that he was without a doubt attracted to Sherlock Holmes. He briefly thought about Sarah, but they weren’t officially together and she would understand that he couldn’t be with her. Besides, thinking back on all the looks, smiles, and comments she’d given him in regard to Sherlock, she probably already knew about how they felt for each other.  
Not breaking eye contact, John reached across the table and gently laid one hand on top of Sherlock’s. The detective looked at their hands, not saying anything, and slowly turned his hand over, his eyes wide in shock and wonder, the feel of his skin making John’s hand tingle with pleasure.  
They connected eyes again and John saw in the detective’s eyes something he’d never seen there before: uncertainty and hesitation. Seeing such vulnerability in Sherlock’s eyes, John wanted nothing more than to hold the detective—his detective—and take care of him, guiding him and giving him the love and attention he never received as a child.  
“Here you are, gentlemen,” their waiter said, causing them to quickly pull their hands apart and look away from each other.  
The rest of their dinner passed in silence and a slight awkwardness, neither of them looking at the other.

 

“Sherlock,” John said as they walked into their flat after a silent cab ride home. “I think we should talk.”  
“About what?” Sherlock asked from the couch, feigning ignorance on the subject.  
“About what happened in the restaurant,” John said seriously, sitting down in his chair.  
“We looked at each other and made physical contact,” Sherlock said woodenly, eyes closed, hands steepled beneath his chin.  
“Sherlock… Did you really feel nothing?” John asked, shocked and slightly worried that the detective really didn’t feel anything and that he’d just imagined it.  
Sherlock was silent for a moment while he thought about John’s question.  
“John, what does love feel like?” Sherlock finally asked, his eyes still closed, hands intertwined and resting on his stomach.  
“What?” John asked in confusion, a trickle of hope beginning to flow through his body and mind.  
“Love, John, what does it feel like?” Sherlock asked again, turning his head to look at the other man.  
“Uh-Umm… I think it feels like the most wonderful thing in the world,” John said, trying to put his feelings for the detective into words. “When you, umm, when you feel true love, you can’t stop thinking about that person and when you’re with them, you’re not thinking about anything else. It feels like everything will be okay and anything that might be wrong will sort itself out. You’re always worrying about them, even if you know they don’t need it. You’re always hoping that they’ll be around the next corner and you feel like, if you can only be with them, then everything will be okay and you’ll be complete.”  
The two men were silent for a moment, both feeling a hot yearning pulling them together and yet remaining where they were, their eyes communicating feelings that neither of them could articulate.  
Finally, Sherlock sat up, not breaking eye contact. After a moment, he looked down in uncertainty and John got up to go sit beside him. He put a hand on Sherlock’s smooth, cool cheek and gently guided the detective’s head until they were facing each other.  
“I’ve, um… I’ve never felt anything like this before,” Sherlock said quietly, intently.  
“Me neither,” John said truthfully before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s.  
John’s heart swelled with love and affection for the other man who was hesitantly and cautiously responding to John, one hand caressing John’s neck, the other on the smaller man’s side.  
John opened his mouth a bit, his warm breath causing the detective to shiver. He slid his tongue out and gently stroked Sherlock’s lower lip, his hands caressing the other man’s face and torso. After a moment, Sherlock opened his mouth to John and he slowly inserted his tongue into the detective’s mouth, slowly stroking everything.  
When Sherlock had relaxed into John’s touch, the doctor moved one hand under Sherlock’s blazer and shirt, delicately running his fingers across velvety smooth skin that heated up beneath John’s touch.  
Sherlock pulled back and placed his forehead against John’s, both of them breathing heavily, neither of them moving their hands.  
The looked into each other’s eyes, Sherlock nervous and John confident, for what felt like an eternity before Sherlock got up, took John’s hand, and led him to his bedroom. They sat next to each other at the top of the bed, removed their shoes and socks, and looked at each other for a moment before they resumed getting to know each other in a new way.  
John had made out with many girls in his life, but was unable to compare this feeling with anything in his past. That had been lust, and this was love. Love different from and stronger than anything he’d ever experienced.  
He gently and slowly pushed Sherlock down onto the bed and straddled his waist, both men pulling away to look at each other. Sherlock nodded at the question in John’s eyes and the doctor quickly removed his shirt and threw it on the floor while the detective removed his blazer and shirt. John took a moment to slowly run his eyes and the fingers of one hand over Sherlock’s smooth, alabaster chest and slightly concave stomach while the detective did the same to his torso, tracing his cool fingers over scars received in the army.  
They looked into each other’s eyes again and John could clearly see the anxiety and trepidation that told him that Sherlock really was a virgin and didn’t know what to do.  
“I’ll take care of you,” John said intently, gently and lovingly kissing Sherlock again.  
He moved backwards and quickly removed his trousers and pants before kneeling and the bed beside Sherlock’s waist and looking back up at the detective. Their eyes connected again and Sherlock nodded nervously, propped up on his elbows so he could see what his doctor was doing.  
John slowly and carefully removed Sherlock’s trousers and hesitated before removing the man’s pants, gazing in wonder at the detective. He looked back up at Sherlock’s face and kept eye contact with him while he spread and bent the taller man’s legs. A thought occurred to him and he pulled away, considering what he should do.  
“Top drawer,” Sherlock said, lying back with one hand over his eyes and pointing to his bedside table.   
John crawled over the other man, sighing in pleasure when they brushed against each other. He opened the drawer, retrieved the lube and condoms, and got back down beside Sherlock’s legs, gently massaging his muscles and causing him to sigh in pleasure.  
“Sherlock,” John said cautioningly when the detective was sufficiently relaxed. “This… It’s going to hurt, but if you relax, it’ll be fine. Anytime you want me to stop, I will. Do you still want me to keep going?”  
Sherlock just nodded, his face turned away from the doctor.  
John situated himself between Sherlock’s legs, slathered his fingers with lube, and rubbed some of it onto Sherlock’s hole. He slowly pushed one finger into the other man, causing him to hiss and clench his jaw, hands clutching the bed sheet.  
After a moment, John slowly pushed another finger into Sherlock’s incredible tightness and warmth, scissoring them slightly and watching Sherlock’s expression as the other man clenched his eyes and winced.  
“It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re doing great,” John said encouragingly, rubbing the detective’s thigh with his free hand.  
After loosening him up a bit more, John inserted a third finger and gave Sherlock a chance to get used to the feeling before he pulled out all of his fingers and tore open the condom wrapper, sliding it onto himself.   
“Just relax, Sherlock,” he said as he positioned himself. “Just breathe deeply and try not to tense up.”  
He slowly and carefully inserted himself into the other man, leaning forward to lovingly stroke Sherlock’s hair and face and whisper into his ear.   
“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” he whispered as he moved inside of Sherlock, the other man’s arm going around his back and pulling him closer.   
The more he moved, the harder it was to go slowly, but John managed to go easy on Sherlock and was rewarded with the other man’s gasps and moans of pleasure, eventually resulting in the detective sharply crying out, “John”, before his muscles tensed up and his mind exploded with bliss.  
Watching the proud, confident detective come apart beneath him, sent John over the edge and every muscle in his body tensed up as his own mind and body exploded in ecstasy. He continued to shakily move inside of Sherlock for a bit before he pulled himself out of the other man, discarded the condom, and curled up on top of the sweaty, shaky detective, his head on the taller man’s chest, arms on his torso.  
They lay together, panting and gazing into each other’s eyes, and slowly began drifting off to sleep.  
“Thank you,” John heard Sherlock whisper before he glided to sleep, Sherlock’s heartbeat promising safety and love.

And there you have the very first mush scene of this story. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Just a couple of things. Their personalities pretty much switched in the bedroom because that’s how I see them having sex. You know, Sherlock the virgin not really knowing what to do because even though he knows the biology of sex, he’s never done it, and John who’s had sex before and is therefore confident and whatnot. I just feel like it would provide an interesting aspect to their relationship. Not just the sex, but how they kind of take turns taking care of each other, if that makes sense. And the only reason why John knows what to do for gay sex is because 1) he knows the biology of gay sex and 2) he knows what he likes. So, yeah. Hope you enjoyed. The next chapter might also have mush in it. We’ll see.


	6. Experimentation

Chapter Six: Experimentation

After a long day at surgery, John came home to find Sherlock on his laptop.   
“I see you’ve been productive,” John said as he sat down tiredly in his chair, long used to the sociopath invading his privacy.  
It had been a week since they’d…had sex? Made love? Neither of them really knew what it had been and they had overall acted as normal, albeit with the occasional glance at each other. And now, whenever they accidentally brushed against each other or their fingers touched, the electricity shooting between them caused them to gaze at each other for a moment before going back to business. John felt they should talk about it, but if Sherlock Holmes didn’t want to talk about something, it wasn’t talked about.  
“How long have you been gone?” Sherlock asked by way of response, still looking at something on John’s computer.  
“Eight and a half hours,” John answered, accustomed to the detective not noticing he was gone.  
“I asked you three times to get my phone.”  
“Well, I was at surgery,” John said, removing his shoes and massaging his feet. “But I see that you eventually managed to get it yourself.” He nodded to the mobile on the desk beside the detective.  
“It kept ringing for ten minutes,” Sherlock replied, not looking at the other man.  
“What are you looking at anyway?” John asked curiously, leaning forward and putting his forearms on his knees.  
“People who follow your blog and have commented on it,” Sherlock replied, finally looking up at the doctor. “What is it exactly that makes people create such unusual usernames on the Internet? FrankandJoe3, All my fandom tears, onceuponatimesupporter, all one word, Flying Alone, HilsonAddict, also one word, and SherWatsonLocked. What does that even mean?” Sherlock asked, frustrated at not understanding something.  
“Sherlock—” John starting, wondering how he was going to explain the mentality of most people on the Internet.  
“What does ‘ship’ mean?” Sherlock interrupted curiously.  
“What?” John asked in confusion.  
“The term ‘ship’. People who follow your blog say that they ‘ship’ us. Ship us where?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at the screen, as if by staring harder at the screen, the computer would tell him what he wanted.  
“Sherlock,” John said in the tone of a teacher speaking to a student. “When people on the Internet say that they ‘ship’ us, that doesn’t mean that they literally want to ship us somewhere. It means that they like the idea of us being in a relationship.”  
“What kind of relationship?” Sherlock asked inquisitively, tilting his head slightly.  
“Umm, a romantic one, a physical one. It kind of depends on the person,” John explained, avoiding the detective’s penetrating gaze as his cheeks heated up.  
“Do people know about our sexual encounter?” the detective asked after a while of awkward silence (or at least awkward for John).   
“What? No,” John said immediately, looking up at the other man in alarm. “No, no, of course they don’t.”  
“Then why would they even consider the notion that we would ever be in a sexual relationship? Oh, because of the fact that for centuries, homosexual relationships have been taboo. A relationship between a man and a woman is expected, normal, therefore boring. But a relationship between two men or two women is exotic, unexpected, therefore interesting. Even now, with gay marriage being legalised and accepted, some people and religions still frown upon it, so of course some people would become obsessed with gay couples. Because as long as society continues to shun the subject, it will continue to appeal to some people. That makes perfect sense. Thank you, John.”  
“My pleasure,” John said sardonically from the kitchen doorway, having gone to make tea while Sherlock was talking.  
“And you needn’t be embarrassed, John. What you’re going through is all perfectly normal,” Sherlock said, setting aside the laptop and going to flop down on the couch in his blue bathrobe.   
“Embarrassed—What are you going on about?” John asked edgily, going to retrieve the squealing kettle.  
“Your internal conflict about your sexuality that has been going on since we met,” Sherlock explained as John sniffed a couple of cups and, deciding that they were fine, poured tea into both of them, putting milk and sugar in his own and a drop of milk into Sherlock’s.  
John tensed up at the detective’s words, but continued making the tea. He took it out to the living room, put Sherlock’s cup on the coffee table, and sat back down.  
“And what makes you think I’m embarrassed?” John asked as he sipped his tea, deciding not to challenge the detective on how long he’d been having an internal conflict.  
“When I asked if people knew of our sexual encounter, you immediately and forcefully said no, so you’re embarrassed because you’ve lived your whole life thinking that you were heterosexual and while you’ve not really been exposed to any blatant homophobia, you still don’t want to accept that you might be gay or even bisexual. So you aren’t going to tell anyone about our encounter because while our encounter remains within these walls, then you can deny it ever happened, but if others know of it, then it becomes real and you don’t want that because you’re embarrassed about the fact that it ever happened,” Sherlock explained simply and clinically as he reached over and took a sip of tea.  
“I’m not,” John said after a moment.  
“Not what?” Sherlock asked, putting the cup back on the table and closing his eyes.  
“Embarrassed,” John clarified, putting his own tea on the little table next to his chair. “I mean, you’re right about everything else, as always, but I’m not embarrassed. More like in shock. But I…I don’t regret anything about our night together… Do you?”  
Sherlock thought a moment before saying, “No. I don’t believe so.”  
“Good… Well, at least now your questions about sex have been answered,” John said, slightly awkward.  
“Not all of them,” Sherlock said, quickly sitting up and looking at the doctor curiously. “John, what does oral sex feel like?”  
John choked on his tea and had to cough for a while before he could breathe or talk again.  
“What?” he gasped in shock, unable to believe he’d heard correctly.  
“Oral sex, John,” Sherlock repeated almost excitedly, as if thinking about conducting a particularly interesting experiment. “I want to know what it feels like.”  
“Umm, maybe this would be a good time for us to find you a boyfriend, yeah?” John said nervously.  
The detective merely looked at John with an inscrutable expression before he got up and walked over to the doctor, sinking to his knees between the other man’s legs.  
“Sherlock, what are you—?” John started before the detective grabbed the back of his neck and aggressively pushed their lips together.  
This time, Sherlock teased open John’s lips and confidently took control. He moved his free hand to John’s quickly-forming erection and began palming him through his trousers, causing him to moan into the detective’s mouth, his fingers tangled in thick black curls. The hand on John’s neck moved down and pushed off his blazer, which the doctor then threw away.  
Sherlock’s hand then moved under John’s t-shirt and thin, strong violinist fingers glided over a strong, muscular torso, eventually moving up to tweak a hard, raised nipple. John removed himself from Sherlock and quickly removed his shirt before pulling the detective back to him, teasing the detective’s tongue with his own and running his tongue across the other man’s lower lip. He reached down, grabbed Sherlock’s upper thighs, and pulled the other man on top of him, while Sherlock moved his hands to run them over John’s hair and torso.   
John gently pushed them apart, pushed off Sherlock’s robe, and quickly removed the other man’s shirt, immediately moving his head forward and taking Sherlock’s hot, hard nipple into his mouth. The detective moaned and arched his back, one hand on the back of the doctor’s head, the other on his shoulder. He slid one hand down John’s torso and one-handedly undid the doctor’s belt and trousers. As John continued to nibble and lick at Sherlock’s nipple, the detective pushed his hand into his trousers and pants and firmly grabbed the doctor’s hard and hot dick.  
John moved his hands to Sherlock’s arse and squeezed it roughly, moving his mouth back to the detective’s. John could feel the pressure growing in his cock as Sherlock roughly squeezed it and moved his hand up and down. He moved his mouth to the detective’s neck and sucked and nibbled his soft skin, knowing that he would have a bruise by tomorrow.  
Sherlock pulled away and began kissing down John’s body until he was kneeling in between the doctor’s legs. Looking up at him, Sherlock removed John’s trousers and pants and stroked the doctor’s cock lovingly before wrapping his lips around the head. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair as the detective stroked his cock, licked a stripe up and down the underside, and took it into his mouth, squeezing the doctor’s balls with his other hand.  
John moaned and gasped and tried desperately not to thrust himself into the other man’s mouth. He looked down in wonder as Sherlock’s lips and mouth slid easily over his dick, his cheeks hallowing as he sucked fiercely.   
“Oh, god. Oh, god, Sherlock, please,” John moaned as the synapses in his brain fried, a golden tidal wave of fiery pleasure cascading through his veins and collecting in his cock and balls.  
Just as his mind and cock were about to erupt with pleasure, Sherlock removed his mouth and pulled John onto the floor, quickly removing his trousers and pants. John whined as the cold air hit his dick, but then Sherlock was straddling him and John’s ability to think clearly vanished. Sherlock leaned down, his hands on John’s shoulders, and reattached their mouths, frantically rutting his cock against John’s.   
John bent his legs on either side of Sherlock’s hips, feet on the floor, and the detective responded by removing his mouth and replacing it with three fingers. John could see the uncertainty and hesitation in the other man’s eyes, so he enthusiastically sucked and licked his fingers until they were coated with saliva.   
Sherlock maintained eye contact with his doctor as he moved his hand down past John’s cock and inserted one finger into the smaller man’s hole, both men instantly getting harder and hotter from the tightness and the heat and the sensations. Sherlock felt something wet against his cock and looked down to see John’s throbbing prick leaking quite a bit of precum.   
“Come now, John,” he whispered sexily into the moaning doctor’s ear, gaining confidence from his obvious arousal. “I’m not even inside you yet and you’re already close? And here I thought it would take more to get you to orgasm.”  
“Oh, just fuck me already,” John moaned impatiently, the friction of his cock against the detective’s causing bolts of electric pleasure to shoot through his body and mind with every pulse of his cock.   
“Patience, John,” Sherlock purred, inserting another finger into his doctor and moving them back and forth.   
He moved his fingers in and out for a bit before curling them and hitting John’s prostate, causing the smaller man to jump and cry out. Sherlock inserted a third finger and struck the spot over and over, the sensation causing John to moan and writhe, John’s moans causing Sherlock’s cock to start leaking precum, their dicks sliding together with the slippery liquid acting as lube.  
“Sherlock, please,” John begged, eyes closed, hands in the detective’s hair and around his shoulders. “Please fuck me.”  
Sherlock removed his fingers, quickly scurried over to the couch, and grabbed the condoms and lube from under the cushion. He crawled back to John, carefully slipped on the condom, and squirted some lube into his hands, rubbing it all over his overly-sensitive prick.  
He paused for a moment, only about seventy-five-point-two percent sure of what he was doing, before putting his hands on the underside of John’s bend thighs and gently pushing them up. He paused again before squirting out a bit more lube and rubbing it over and in John’s puckered red hole. He carefully positioned himself at John’s entrance and slowly pushed himself in, the feel of John’s tight wet heat around him almost making him cum right then.  
John’s moans rose almost to screams, which Sherlock muffled with his mouth, one hand on the doctor’s shoulder, the other working his prick. As the tingling warmth began gathering in his balls and the pressure built in his head, Sherlock’s thrusts and movements became faster and more erratic. John wrapped his legs around the detective’s thighs and pulled him closer, biting down on the taller man’s shoulder to keep from screaming. Sherlock roughly struck John’s prostate and the doctor tensed, nails digging into Sherlock’s back, and cried out as he came explosively, strings of white cum squirting across both men’s stomachs, his mind exploding with the force of an H-bomb.  
Feeling John’s muscles tighten around him, Sherlock clutched desperately to the other man as he came for all he was worth, almost blacking out from the pleasure.  
They stayed like that, slowly and peacefully gliding back to earth, for what felt like an eternity, and when he was finally able to move again, Sherlock slid out of John and curled up beside him, both men panting and sweating.   
“I need a shower,” John sighed as Sherlock stripped himself of the condom.  
Sherlock lowered his head and licked up all of the saltiness on John’s stomach.   
“No, you don’t,” he said once he was done, still breathing heavily.  
“I’m still sweaty,” John said breathlessly.  
“It’ll pass,” Sherlock said dismissively as he lay next to John, gazing up at the ceiling.   
“Why do you not want me to take a shower?” John asked, looking at the other man.  
“Because I don’t want you to leave me,” Sherlock replied, turning his head to look at his doctor lovingly.  
John smiled, placed a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose, and stood up, holding out his hands. “Then let’s go take a shower together.”  
Sherlock smiled in return, accepted the doctor’s hands, and followed him to the bathroom.

 

Whoo. Is it hot in here or is it just you? I know that was long, but I hope you enjoyed it. And by the way, this will not be the last chapter (psyche) because in the process of writing this, I have thought more thoughts, so there will be more mush and more drama and whatnot. Reviews make me happier than a Labrador retriever in water… Or Sherlock in John. So please comment, tell me what you think, and recommend me to other people ‘cause I’m a whore and like attention. *Huggles*


	7. Pushed To The Limit

Hello, once again, my dear darlings, disclaimers: illness, gory murder, talk of Johnlock and Mystrade (cuz I ships it)

Chapter Seven: Pushed To the Limit

They’d had pretty much non-stop cases for three weeks and John was getting worried about Sherlock. In his insane drive and commitment to the work, the detective had barely eaten or slept, and while that was pretty normal, he’d also barely drunk anything, ignoring any tea or coffee that John put before him. He hadn’t had a proper meal since that night in the Italian restaurant, and the lack of nutrients was starting to take its toll on the man. His pale skin had developed a grayish tint and John had noticed the bones in his face and wrists protruding more than normal. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, his hands were constantly shaking slightly, and John noticed that whenever Sherlock would get up to go somewhere, even if he’d only been sitting for ten minutes, the detective would pause for the briefest moment and sway a bit, as if he were on the verge of passing out.  
Thanks to John’s constant pestering, he’d managed to get Sherlock to eat a piece of toast every now and then, but he hadn’t been aware until recently that the detective wasn’t drinking either. (He only found out after spending thirty-six straight hours with the detective and seeing him drink nothing.) Even though the constant refusal of sustenance clearly pointed to anorexia, John knew that wasn’t it. The problem was that Sherlock thought that he could overcome basic human needs by deciding that he didn’t need the same things as everyone else. John was half tempted to just force feed the man, but the notion left him feeling cold and Sherlock would just make himself throw up out of defiance.  
So John just sat back and observed the detective as much as he could, always on the ready should the other man actually pass out. It had gotten to the point that even people who didn’t pay exclusive attention to Sherlock were noticing a difference, with Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and Angelo all remarking that he looked “a bit peaky” or “under the weather” or “like you’ve been working too hard”. Mrs Hudson had even offered to do grocery shopping for them, to which Sherlock had politely declined.   
John had considered calling Mycroft, but Sherlock had told him that if he did that, then he would tell everyone on John’s blog about their sexual relationship. So, despite the fact that every ounce of logic he had screamed at him to get Sherlock help, he was forced to sit back and watch the detective waste away. John just hoped that their current case would be over soon.

 

Sherlock had just called Lestrade with the answer to the case and they’d both taken a twenty-minute breather when Donovan called with another case.  
“Come on, John,” Sherlock said almost tiredly, standing up and pausing for a moment, his eyes on the ground.   
“Another one?” John asked exasperatedly from his chair, where he had been sipping a cup of tea.  
“Double homicide, husband and wife,” Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf around his neck and pulling on his coat.   
“If it’s so simple, why can’t they take care of it?” John demanded, only half out of concern for the detective.  
“Lestrade’s busy wrapping up the last case and I doubt that anyone else could function without me,” Sherlock said as he pulled on his gloves. “Come on, John.”  
John reluctantly got up and followed the detective outside.   
“8812 Ysidra Lane,” Sherlock said to the cabbie before putting a hand to his forehead and massaging his temple with his thumb.  
“You okay?” John asked with a note of concern.  
“Yeah,” Sherlock said crisply, lowering his hand and staring straight ahead. “Of course.”  
“You know, I bet you’d feel a lot better if we stopped and got some tea.”  
“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock insisted, a sharp edge in his voice.  
“I just—” John started.  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated forcefully, looking out the window, his tone and body language signalling the end of any conversation.  
John just sighed in resignation and stared out his own window, praying that this would be the last case for a while.

 

When they got to the crime scene, Donovan was there taking charge in Lestrade’s absence. The two men walked down the alley to where the bodies lay. Both youngish the man and the young woman were naked and their hands, feet, and heads had been cut off, all laying approximately where they were originally. The woman’s breasts had been cut off and one was on the man’s face, the other on his chest, and the man’s penis had also been cut off and was resting on the woman’s chest in between where her breasts had been.  
“What is it with these crime scenes these days?” John demanded rhetorically, putting a hand over his nose to mask the smell.  
“Some people think it’s the full moon,” Donovan said, a look of discomfort on her face as she looked at John, her arms folded across her chest.  
“For three weeks?” John said sceptically as Sherlock moved around the bodies, carefully examining them.  
Donovan just shrugged helplessly.  
“Oi, Freak,” she called after a while of watching Sherlock move around the bodies. “Got anything?”  
“They’re not married,” Sherlock said as he knelt beside the woman, fingertips gently massaging his temple. “They’re brother and sister, the physical similarities make that obvious. She’s happily married, has been for three years, he isn’t. Hasn’t had any affairs, but his wife has, which would cause him to drink excessively, though he’s not divorced because of the children who are relatively young, approximately eight and ten. She hasn’t had kids yet, but she’s thinking about it, mostly because her wife’s been mentioning it. They weren’t killed here, not enough blood, so they were killed somewhere the noise of a chainsaw wouldn’t be unusual, so maybe a sawmill. It isn’t the wife who killed them because she doesn’t want to upset the children, so maybe one of her lovers.”  
“Hold on,” Donovan said in confusion. “How do you know she’s married to a girl? And what’s with the placement of the breasts and… penis?”  
The detective looked at her as if she’d asked what the air was made of.  
“See this?” he asked, pointing to a tattoo of a flower in the middle of her chest. “It’s a lily, therefore her wife’s name is Lily, and, no, she doesn’t just like lilies because if that were the case, then she wouldn’t have gotten the tattoo above her heart, since that would be an awkward place for a girl to get a tattoo. So the only reason to get the tattoo above her heart would be if she was saying that somebody owned her heart. In regard to the placement of the organs, the killer was obviously upset with him, again probably a jealous lover of the wife’s, and wanted him out of the way. The killer is homophobic, as evidenced by the penis on the lesbian’s chest, and had the idea that the man wanted to have an affair with his own sister, most definitely planted there by the wife.”  
“That’s brilliant,” John said automatically, standing behind the other man.  
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, his head in his palm, elbow on his knee.   
He stood up shakily, putting one hand on the brick wall of the alley, his breathing laboured. He had begun walking slowly down the alley, John and Donovan still talking over the bodies, when he paused and started coughing. He could hear his blood pounding through his veins, the slamming beats of his over-worked heart shaking his entire body. He could feel sweat all over his body and he struggled to force the acidic nausea away.  
“Hey, are you okay?” a voice asked from above him, alerting him to the fact that he was stooped over, both shaking arms against the wall.  
He looked up at the ignorant pestilence who called himself a detective and begun to inform him that anyone with half of a brain cell could see that he was not okay, when a river of burning, yellowish-green stomach acid forced its way out of his body, scorching his throat and coating his teeth.  
“Sherlock!” he heard John yell in alarm as his vomit struck the pavement, causing the detective to jump back in alarm.  
He was just starting to slide down the wall when John caught him around the waist, holding him up.  
“Come on, Sherlock, let’s sit you down over here,” John said, leading the detective out of the alley and onto a bench, Sherlock only half-aware of what was happening.  
“Oh, god, you’re burning up,” John said in alarm as Sherlock leaned his burning forehead into the doctor’s cool hand. “Does anyone have any water?”  
“Here,” Donovan said worriedly, handing John a plastic bottle from her bag.  
“Drink,” John ordered, holding open bottle out to Sherlock and kneeling in front of him.  
The detective turned his head away and weakly attempted to bat John’s hand away.  
“Sherlock,” the doctor said, forceful and frustrated, as he grabbed the detective’s chin with his free hand and forced him to make eye contact. “I am a doctor. You are dehydrated and malnourished. If you don’t drink this, then I will force it down your throat and trust me, I’ve done it before.”  
They maintained eye contact for a while longer before Sherlock jerked his chin out of John’s grip and grabbed the bottle, spitting out the first two mouthfuls to rid his mouth of the acid.  
“Is he gonna be okay?” Donovan asked hesitantly, not used to seeing the icy detective in any way vulnerable.  
“He’ll be fine,” John assured her, a hand on the detective’s bony shoulder. “I’m just gonna take him home and make sure he gets some rest. You can function without him.”  
“Need to… Need to stay,” Sherlock said feebly, still sipping the water.   
“Sherlock, you’re no good to anyone half dead,” John said logically. “The only way you’ll be able to help is if you get your strength back. So we’re going home, you’re going to get some rest, I’ll make you some tea, and later, we’ll go out for dinner. How does that sound? Keeping in mind that you don’t have a choice in the matter,” John added as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.  
The detective smiled weakly at his doctor and a cab that Donovan had called showed up. John helped Sherlock into the cab and they rode home in companionable silence.

 

“How is he?” Mycroft demanded, panic in his voice as he burst into the flat.  
“Oh, look, Mycroft’s here and he’s brought a migraine with him,” Sherlock said sardonically from the couch, gesturing to his brother and massaging his temple with his thumb, his eyes closed.  
“His heart rate’s still a bit high,” John told Mycroft, sitting in a wooden chair next to Sherlock’s head. “Blood pressure’s still really low, temperature’s normal, and he still has a headache. But he’ll be fine.”  
“Thank you, John,” Mycroft exhaled in relief, closing the door behind him. He was silent for a moment, looking at his brother on the couch, before slowly walking forward and forcefully slamming his umbrella onto the detective’s crossed ankles.  
“Ow,” Sherlock said drily, not opening his eyes.  
“Three weeks with almost no food, drink, or sleep. Three weeks, Sherlock. Are you suicidal or just that big of an idiot? And you call yourself a genius. What the hell is wrong with you?” Mycroft demanded angrily, his voice trembling with an undercurrent of concern.   
“Are you done?” Sherlock asked calmly after a moment, still not looking at his brother.  
“For now,” Mycroft relented, sinking down into John’s chair and sighing, running a stressed hand over his head.  
“And this is why I have more hair,” Sherlock commented. “Because he’s always worrying about me and I never worry about him.”  
“And because our father went bald at a young age,” Mycroft added, propping his head up with his fingers.  
“Doesn’t apply.”  
“What?” John asked the detective.  
“Our father went bald at a young age, so it doesn’t apply,” Sherlock said.  
“How’s the sex with John going?” Mycroft asked, smiling playfully at his brother.  
A small smile stretched across his lips before he said, “Lovely. And the sex with Lestrade?”  
“Wonderful. Though you may want to go easier on John next time.”  
“You’re one to talk,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes and looking at his brother. “Lestrade couldn’t sit down last time I saw him.”  
“And I noticed that you were limping quite a bit a while ago. Didn’t take you long to take control.”  
“If you’re trying to conceal your relationship, it’s not working. I could smell you on him and his body language and facial expressions practically screamed sex.”  
“Though it is understandable that you would hurt John more than necessary, since you are so new to sexual relationships.”  
They went back and forth a while longer before Mycroft took his leave, John periodically checking Sherlock’s heart rate and blood pressure.  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said after they’d sat in silence for a while.  
“For what?” John asked, surprised and confused.  
“Taking care of me,” Sherlock said almost reluctantly as he sipped his tea.  
John gently put his hand on the detective’s head and stroked his hair, a bit surprised that Sherlock allowed it.   
“I’ll always take care of you,” he said intently, placing a gentle kiss on his lover’s forehead.

Sorry there wasn’t any mush, but I was just so intrigued by the idea of Sherlock being publically vulnerable that I just had to write it down. I promise mushy mush in the next chapter. Your reviews cause me to squeal in delight and they are all saved on my laptop. And if the dialogue for Mycroft didn’t quite match his character, I terribly sorry. As always, I loves all of you crazy lovelies. *Huggles*


	8. Imaginary

Chapter Eight: Imaginary

“Wait, so Sherlock literally threw up at a crime scene yesterday?” Lestrade asked incredulously, sitting across from Mycroft in a posh little hotel restaurant.  
“Yeah, he really did,” My croft responded, sipping a cup of tea. “I have a few people monitoring the CCTV and I almost couldn’t believe it when one of them told me. But I’m surprised that Donovan didn’t tell you.”  
“Well, she had her own case to deal with and I was in the process of juggling the wrap-up of four different cases,” Lestrade explained before taking a bit out of his toast with strawberry jam.  
“Yes, you have been working quite hard recently,” My croft agreed, taking a bit of egg before continuing. “Perhaps we should go on holiday when this current case is over.”  
“I don’t know. I can’t just leave everyone,” Lestrade said uncertainly.  
“Donovan and Sherlock can manage. And besides, I hear the Bahamas are lovely this time of year.”  
“But I’m—” Lestrade started to protest.   
“Greg,” Mycroft said intently, reaching out to put his hand on the other man’s. “You are working far too hard. You deserve a break.”  
“Oh, all right,” Lestrade relented after a moment, both men smiling.  
“Wonderful,” Mycroft said happily.  
“So how’s Sherlock doing?” Lestrade asked, going back to his fry-up.  
“Better. When I saw him last night, he was back to being sarcastic and I’ve no doubt that John made him have a proper meal after I left,” Mycroft replied, going back to his own breakfast.  
“John really is good for him. I was beginning to doubt that there was anyone who could tame your brother.”  
“I do believe he’s also one of the only three people who can stand to be around Sherlock for more than two hours,” Mycroft added, forking a piece of melon.  
“Though god knows what makes him crazy enough to want to live with a Holmes man,” Lestrade said jokingly.  
“Probably the same thing that makes you crazy enough to be in a relationship with me,” Mycroft said lovingly, twining the fingers of his left hand with Greg’s right.   
They gazed affectionately into each other’s eyes for a moment before going back to their food.  
“So, I noticed that Sherlock was limping a while ago,” Lestrade remarked, half focusing on his food.  
“Yes, it seems that he and the good Dr Watson have entered new territory in their relationship.”  
“Maybe now Sherlock will be nicer and stop psychoanalyzing everyone so much. That’s what happened with you,” Greg added in response to his lover’s confused expression. “When we first met, you would just tell me what I was thinking or feeling and you were only civil to people who were useful to you. But, as our relationship progressed, you became kinder and allowed me to tell you what I wanted even if you already knew.  
“And I’m already seeing that kind of thing in Sherlock. Ever since he met John, he’s been a bit softer and his insults have sounded more like reflex than actual barbs. I doubt he’s even aware of it, but it seems to me that he’s becoming a bit more human.”  
They finished their meals in comfortable silence, Mycroft thinking over Greg’s words. When Mycroft had paid, they left the hotel, parted with a hug and a chaste kiss, and went back to their separate jobs.

 

“Find anything?” John asked Sherlock as the detective studied a slide in the lab at St. Bart’s.  
“Both victims had been injected with a cocktail of ecstasy, LSD, and cocaine,” Sherlock responded, not looking up from the microscope.   
John had all but forced Sherlock to have dinner last night and had somehow managed to drug Sherlock (a testament to how tired the man had been) and get him to sleep for eight hours.  
When he’d woken up, Sherlock had been a bit annoyed with John, but the feeling had quickly passed when they’d gotten to the hospital and the detective had started on his work. John had decided to help out in surgery and had asked Molly to help make sure Sherlock got enough to drink. (He’d actually expected them to fire him, but apparently they understood that working with Sherlock Holmes lead to erratic work hours.)  
So he’d helped out a bit and then had gone back up to check on Sherlock and bring him a cup of tea.  
“Why?” he asked the detective in regard to the drug cocktail.  
“To make them more compliant and susceptible to suggestion so that they would willingly follow the killer to the murder site, or simply to make them easier to deal with,” Sherlock answered, sipping the tea without looking at John. “The question is, what kind of effect would such a combination of drugs have on the body?”  
“Well, presumably the same effect as ecstasy, LSD, and cocaine, only all at once,” John said.   
“Presumably.” Sherlock put a slight emphasis on the word, looking up at the doctor with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But there’s only one way to make sure.”  
“No,” John said firmly in realisation as a smile matching the look in his eyes stretched across the detective’s face. “No, no, no, no, no. You are not going to inject yourself with that kind of cocktail.”  
Sherlock jumped up and walked around the lab, taking three different vials out of the glass cabinets.  
“Did you hear a word I just said?” John demanded, beginning to panic as Sherlock grabbed a beaker, dumped the vials in, and gently swirled them together.  
“Yes, of course I heard you,” Sherlock said calmly, mixing the drugs together. “I’m just choosing to ignore you.”  
“Sherlock” John said firmly and fearfully, going up to the detective and putting his hands on the other man’s face, looking pleadingly into his eyes. “Do you have any idea what those drugs will do to you? LSD alone can kill you. And if it doesn’t do that, then you could have permanent brain damage. This is not a game, Sherlock. This is your life. And I don’t care if you get off on danger, you are not doing this.”  
“John,” Sherlock said intently, taking his doctor’s hands in his own. “I know what I’m doing. At various points in my life, I have had each of these drugs in my system and I’m perfectly fine. Trust me, I’ll be fine. And this is not just about me ‘getting off’ on danger, this is about the case. It’s about finding the answer, solving the puzzle. Because what you don’t understand is that once I get a new case, the case gets inside my head and I can’t think about anything else. It’s like this voice screaming in my mind and it just blocks out everything else. I need to do this, John. I know I can do it… Besides, I’m gonna end up doing this whether or not you’re with me, so you might as well be there to help,” Sherlock added, smiling playfully.  
“You are such a stubborn git,” John said exasperatedly, gently shoving Sherlock’s chest.  
“And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” Sherlock said, going back to his work.

 

“Wow, you really are an idiot,” Donovan said when Sherlock had proposed his idea to her and Lestrade.  
“We need to know how able they were; whether or not they could walk, whether they could talk, what their mental capacities were. And this is the best way to come close to understanding,” Sherlock explained.  
“He has a point,” Lestrade said, sitting in his desk chair, the rest of them sitting in other chairs.   
“Thank you, Lestrade,” Sherlock acknowledged. “And I would appreciate it if you not mention this to Mycroft.”  
“Fair enough,” Lestrade agreed while Donovan looked at him curiously. “But you know he’ll find out fairly quickly.”  
“That he will,” Sherlock admitted, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Anyway, let’s get on with it.”  
He pulled a capped syringe and a tourniquet out of his coat pocket and placed them on Lestrade’s desk before hanging his coat on the back of his chair and rolling up his left sleeve.  
“John?” he asked, looking expectantly at the doctor.  
“What, you can’t do it yourself?” Donovan questioned derisively.  
“I can, but I thought John might want to,” Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes on John and holding out the rubber tourniquet.  
John sighed in resignation, took the tourniquet, and knelt in front of the detective. He tied the tourniquet above the crook in the detective’s elbow and tabbed the pale skin to raise his already-visible blue veins. He uncapped the syringe, gently took the detective’s arm in his hand and hesitated a moment before sliding the needle into the largest and most prominent vein and pushing down on the plunger.   
When the syringe was empty, John removed the needle, untied the tourniquet, and sat back on his chair.  
“How do you feel?” Lestrade asked after a minute of all three of them staring at Sherlock.  
“Fine,” Sherlock said, brow furrowing in confusion. He stood up and started to the door. “I’m going ba—”  
Suddenly, he collapsed on the ground, swaying as if on a wildly pitching boat. He felt as if, in a split second, his mind had been ripped open and turned inside out. Try as he might, he couldn’t focus on any one thing and was beginning to get nauseous from the way the floor was moving. Had the floor of Lestrade’s office always been made of pink grass? And where was that incredibly fast pounding noise coming from? Oh, that was his heart. Had it always beat that fast? He looked at his hands and saw that they were made up of a collage of green, purple, blue, and orange, his fingertips elongating and shrinking in time with the beat of his heart. That was new.  
“Sherlock,” he heard someone say, the word turning into blue music notes that floated past his head.  
Sherlock? Oh, yes, that was him. But who was this person crouching beside him?  
“Sherlock, can you hear me?” The words again became music notes and floated into his ear, whispering the words ‘John Watson’.  
John. Oh, yes, this man beside him was John, the hands on his face were John’s. He knew John. But had John always been black and orange? Was it Halloween? Oh well, no matter. Sherlock didn’t really care what colour John was or if he had elf ears because John was the one thing that wasn’t spinning or shifting.  
“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John snapped in front of his face, causing a golden dust to blow into his eyes.  
He closed his eyes and tried shaking his head to rid himself of the gold dust, but shaking his head just made everything spin even more. He fell onto his back in the grass from the dizziness, gazing in wonder at the fact that there was an ocean above him, an ocean and a beach with pretty little pixies floating around his face. He tried to grab one of the pixies, but when he reached up and moved his hand, the ocean swirled and disappeared and he could see a tanned face with haunted blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. The face was backlit by sunshine and had foolish little cupids with wings on either side, playing their harps and smiling. So the face must be an angel. Did he even believe in such things? He did now.  
The angel took his wrist and when he put it down, he left a golden impression where his fingers had been. Sherlock looked up and saw a worried expression on the angel’s face. That wasn’t right. Angels shouldn’t be worried. No, wait, this angel had a name. What was it again? Oh, yes, John.  
The angel—John—quickly looked at Sherlock and he realised he’d said the name aloud.  
“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John asked hopefully, his eyes and chest glowing with a golden light.  
Sherlock instantly knew that John represented stability and safety. After testing and confirming the theory by looking around and seeing the spinning everywhere but John, Sherlock reached up and put a hand on John’s face. Soft John. John look confused and Sherlock realised he’d thought out loud again. He should probably stop doing that.  
He put his hands on John’s shoulders and pulled himself up, causing everything except John to spin faster. He ran his hands over John’s face, naming each feature as he touched it. He then assured John that he was a good John, the best John. But even after his assurances, John still looked worried. Why? What could Sherlock do to calm him down?  
Oh, yes, he thought before pressing his lips to John’s, tingling sparks travelling from John’s lips to his and flowing through him, filling every part of his body from his head to his feet. He had one hand on the back of John’s neck, the other gripping John’s shirt at his shoulder. And everything is perfect. Everything freezes. Time stops. All there is in the world is him and John.  
John gently pushes him away, hands on his shoulders.  
“Sherlock,” John says, his eyes and chest glowing bright white, his lips glowing red.  
The one word, the way John said it, swam into Sherlock’s head, cloaked him with comfort and security, and lulled him to sleep.

Okay, so I know that was possibly shorter than my normal chapters and I know I didn’t have any mush, but I don’t really have any control of it. I just come up with ideas and somehow they flow together and my fingers and brain work things out as I’m going. And I just want to point out that I have never been on any drugs, so if the experience is off, I’m terribly sorry.


	9. Reunited

Chapter Nine: Reunited

John had never been more freaked out in his life, seeing Sherlock Holmes completely unaware and rambling. Everyone had been shocked when Sherlock had been touching and naming parts of John’s face and telling him that he was a good John, but when Sherlock had kissed him, John had frozen in astonishment. Then Sherlock had passed out and Lestrade and Donovan stared at John, Donovan with disbelief, Lestrade with understanding, and John had merely made sure that Sherlock was stable.  
Now, sitting next to the still-unconscious detective lying on a couch in Scotland Yard, John wondered if Sherlock would even remember kissing him. It wasn’t like John had minded kissing him, he just wasn’t quite ready for others to know of their relationship.  
He sighed and reached out to stroke Sherlock’s silky hair. The detective stirred and John pulled his hand away. Sherlock opened his eyes and swiftly clenched them shut again, his thumb going to his temple, other fingers in the middle of his forehead.  
“How long have I been out?” he asked tiredly, his voice lower than normal.  
“Only about an hour,” John responded, taking Sherlock’s pulse. “Needless to say, we can assume that the victims weren’t going anywhere of their own accord.”  
“Needless to say, yet you still say it,” Sherlock said, lowering his hand to his lap and sighing deeply. “There was no way that the victims would’ve been walking anywhere while they were drugged, so the killer drugged them—Doctor.”  
“What?” John asked in confusion, putting a hand to the detective’s forehead.  
“Lestrade!!!!” Sherlock yelled, his eyes still closed.  
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Lestrade asked worriedly, rushing into the room as John lowered his hands from his ears.  
“The victims walked in willingly to see their killer since the injection points were clean and there was no sign of any restraints. So they knew they were going to be injected and the—no, not doctor, drug dealer—killer was arranged to give them an injection of something, most likely cocaine. He’s already miserable, so he needs an escape and she just comes along to help him, resolved not to go back to her old cocaine habit. But the killer persuades both of them to accept injections and then, while they were both under the influence of the drug, the killer uses a chainsaw—or maybe a bone saw, no, definitely a chainsaw—to cut off their heads before cutting off he hands and feet, etcetera. But the killer needed this to happen somewhere the noise of a chainsaw wouldn’t be noticed, so next to a construction site, where one of his lesser known drug spots is located. So he kills them there, probably on top of a sheet since he doesn’t want to get blood everywhere, takes them to the alley, and burns the sheet,” Sherlock explained, his deduction voice a bit slower than normal.  
“I thought you said a sawmill was the murder site,” Lestrade said, leaning against the doorway of the room.  
“Sawmill? No, of course not. There are no sawmills anywhere near here. They’re local, she’s busy, he’s lazy, so they don’t want to go anywhere too far away, so what construction sites are relatively close by? The only active one is the Honourable Construction Company’s newest project on Vilonic Street. They take a taxi because they don’t’ want anyone to recognise their car, they get out two blocks away, walk to the site, etcetera, etcetera.”  
“So, who’s the killer?” Lestrade asked, arms crossed.   
“Check his wife’s lovers,” Sherlock murmured, eyes still closed, hand back on his forehead. “Get Mycroft to check the CCTV of that area as far back as it will go, since the CCTV for that night has most likely been wiped. Also check all the other drug spots—Mycroft will know where—and see if any of the dealers match up with any of the lovers his wife has had.”  
“How are you feeling?” John asked tenderly once Lestrade had gone.  
“Dizzy. Tired. Vaguely nauseous,” Sherlock replied. “The drugs should be completely out of my system within forty-eight hours.”  
“Sherlock…do you remember anything?” John asked cautiously.  
“Did I actually kiss you or was that in my head?”  
“You actually did that.”  
“Oh,” Sherlock said simply. “What else did I do?”  
“You touched my face, said that I was soft, told me that I was a good John, the best John, and then you passed out,” John said, putting his hand back on the detective’s head. “And you mumbled a lot of non-sensible stuff while you were out.”  
“No doubt Donovan will be quite frequently reminding me of everything I said for months,” Sherlock mumbled.  
“Oh, and you also looked at her, called her Medusa and said, ‘Don’t look at her, she’s hideous’.”  
Sherlock merely smiled and laughed softly.  
“So, do you, um, do you wanna go home or stay here?” John asked a bit hesitantly.  
Sherlock was silent for a while before saying, “Home, I suppose. Lestrade has all he needs to find the killer, so we might as well go home.”  
“Can you walk?”   
Sherlock sat up and immediately put his hands on John’s shoulders, swaying a bit.  
“Mostly,” he said, his eyes wide and on John’s chest.  
“Come on,” John said, helping his friend up and wrapping an arm around his waist.  
“Okay, I’m fine,” the detective said, pulling away from John.  
“Are you sure?” the doctor asked, hands out to catch Sherlock if he fell.  
“I’m sure,” the detective said, taking one step and immediately pitching forward to grab the wall.  
Before John could voice his concern, Sherlock kept moving, using the wall for balance. They made their way out of the building and Sherlock leaned against the wall while John hailed a cab.  
“How are you feeling?” John asked again once they were comfortably seated.  
“Headache’s mostly gone,” the detective said, lowering his hand from his forehead and staring straight ahead. “Though everything still feels like the deck of a ship and I’m still getting some hallucinations, mostly little stuff.”  
“Like what?” John asked curiously and clinically.  
“Mostly existing things warping, though most of the dogs on the street look like they want to kill me or they look like Moriarty,” Sherlock said, looking out the window.  
John hesitantly put a hand on the detective’s leg and his head quickly snapped back to John’s. Sherlock’s eyes went to the doctor’s hand and back again and John could see more in his eyes than probably anyone else had ever seen. By just looking into the detective’s eyes, John could see fear, hesitation, uncertainty, and beneath that, affection and vulnerability and a longing to express those emotions.  
Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock slowly placed his hand on top of the doctor’s. John turned his hand over and twined his fingers with Sherlock’s and even though they’d already had sex, John could see that the detective was still made nervous by something as simple as hand holding and all the deep and complicated emotions that went with such a gesture.  
He tried to put into his eyes all the love he felt for the other man, attempting to let him know that he didn’t need to hide or pretend and everything would be okay. He wanted his detective to know that he didn’t have to hide his emotions and he could let all the walls come down around John and that John would always protect him. Because even though they’d had sex, John could tell that Sherlock was still scared about expressing any kind of vulnerable emotion.  
They stayed like that, gazing into each other’s eyes, for the rest of the cab ride home.

 

When they got home, Sherlock promptly flopped down on the sofa after removing his coat (the scarf and gloves in a pocket) while John went to make tea.  
“That the drugs?” John asked of Sherlock’s wildly twitching foot when he came back with the tea.  
“Obviously,” the detective said, his eyes closed, while he removed his shoes and socks with one hand.  
“Want me to get you anything?” John asked kindly, ignoring the detective’s harsh tone.  
“No,” Sherlock said choppily, not opening his eyes, the fingers of one hand drumming rapidly on his stomach.  
“Sherlock,” John said seriously, sitting down on the chair still beside the sofa and setting his tea on the floor beside him. “If you need anything—anything at all—you need to let me know. I don’t want you to keep pulling this stoic, ‘I don’t need anything’ shtick. For once—just for once—please listen to your body. Please.”  
They were both silent for a moment, John waiting and Sherlock thinking, before the detective spoke up, his eyes still closed.  
“I don’t understand what’s happening to me,” he said, more than a bit of confusion and fear in his voice.  
“What do you mean?” John asked, brow furrowed in concern.  
“All my life, I’ve known that emotions and sentiment are weaknesses and can be used against you and yet every time your life is threatened, it feels as if my heart is being constricted and whenever you get upset with me, I feel something akin to nausea. Whenever you touch me, my entire body feels warm and my heart rate increases. I can never get you out of my mind and whenever we’re apart, it feels as if something’s missing. What’s wrong with me, John?” Sherlock finally opened his eyes and looked into John’s, his own wide and innocent.  
The doctor was struck silent for a moment, unable to believe that Sherlock would think that love was a bad thing.  
“Sherlock, there’s nothing wrong with you,” he eventually said comfortingly, gently petting the detective’s hair. “I mean, you are a sociopathic arrogant git with no regard for normal social structure and very low tolerance for people of average intelligence, but that doesn’t mean that there’s something wrong with you.”  
Sherlock smiled at John’s words before sighing and saying, “But emotions make you vulnerable, John. What if you were to get hurt? I would be unable to think clearly. I could barely think at all when Moriarty strapped that bomb to you. All I could think was that I had to get you out. My mind is all I have and if I can’t use that—if I can’t divorce myself from a situation enough to be able to think clearly—then I’m useless, I’m average.” He practically spat out the word, as if the prospect of being like everyone else left a bad taste in his mouth.  
John had to laugh at this and only stopped when he noticed the offended look that the detective was giving him.  
“Sherlock Holmes, you will never be average,” John said confidently, smiling and stroking Sherlock’s cheeks with the backs of his fingers. “You may be aggravating, insufferable, and annoying, but you will never be average. You will always be extraordinary.”  
“Really?” Sherlock asked, his eyes shining with love and trust.   
By way of response, John took the detective’s smooth face in his hands and bent down, gently pressing their lips together. He could feel one of the detective’s hands on the back of his neck as Sherlock moved his head up, deepening the kiss. He hesitantly stroked John’s lower lip with his tongue and the doctor gladly opened his mouth to the detective.   
Sherlock slowly explored his doctor’s mouth with his tongue as he shifted and put his hands on John’s hips, pulling the other man on top of him. As their mouths moved together, John could feel Sherlock’s erection pressing eagerly against his own as he straddled the detective, his hands moving to Sherlock’s shoulders. He felt the detective’s hands underneath his jumper and sweater, clutching almost desperately at John’s skin. He dipped his fingers into Sherlock’s collar and moved his mouth to the detective’s neck, grinding their hips together.  
“Please, John,” Sherlock said almost pleadingly.  
John sat up to pull off his jumper and sweater before reconnecting their mouths, removing his shoes and socks before one-handed before going to word on the detective’s shirt buttons. He pulled off Sherlock’s shirt and jumper and attached his mouth to the other man’s neck as strong fingers ran over a slightly bony torso. He felt Sherlock’s hands on his arse as he bit and sucked the detective’s soft neck, the hands squeezing and pushing underneath trousers to feel skin.  
He undid the detective’s trousers without moving his mouth and started fingering one of Sherlock’s nipples with one hand while his other hand moved down to grasp Sherlock’s hot, hard, and heavy cock.  
John slowly removed the detective’s trousers and tossed them away, gazing for a moment at the taller man’s gloriously tented pants before discarding them as well. He kept his eyes locked with Sherlock’s while he put his hands on the underside of Sherlock’s bare thighs and pushed his legs up, feet on either side of John’s body.  
He leaned forward and brought their mouths together again, trying to ignore his straining erection while rubbing against Sherlock’s hot and throbbing cock. Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth from the sensation of dick on denim and thrust himself against the smaller man, frantically running his hands over the doctor’s back, arse, and hair.  
John removed his hands from Sherlock’s body to push the detective’s knees to his chest. He quickly removed his own trousers and pants and got on his knees on the sofa in front of Sherlock, taking the detective’s large and throbbing cock in one hand while using the other to hold up the younger man’s hips. He lowered his mouth and took Sherlock into his mouth, causing him to moan in pleasure and grab John’s hair.  
The doctor moved his hand from Sherlock’s cock to his balls while he mouth-fucked the detective’s dick, careful not to make himself gag. He moved the hand on Sherlock’s hip to his tight arse and began squeezing roughly.  
“John,” Sherlock moaned while the other man ran his tongue over the head of his cock, licking up the leaking precum.   
“John,” Sherlock said more forcefully, causing the doctor to remove his mouth and look at his lover, who was holding a bottle of lube out to him.  
“But—” John started, worrying about condoms.  
“I have no disease and neither to do you,” Sherlock stated simply, eyes still closed, moving his cock closer to John.  
The doctor took the lube, coated his fingers, and inserted one finger into the detective, shocked at how tight the other man still was. He felt Sherlock push back against him and he inserted another finger, watching Sherlock’s face as he scissored his fingers slightly. The taller man winced and hissed slightly, trembling as John ran his tongue up and down his cock.  
“John, I—I need—Please,” Sherlock gasped, his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders and head.  
John added a third finger and watched Sherlock jump and cry out as he struck the detective’s prostate. He hit that spot a few more times before removing his fingers, slathering his weeping cock with lube, leaning over the other man, and slowly inserting himself, watching the detective’s expressions reverently as Sherlock shuddered and moaned, pulling his doctor closer.  
“God, Sherlock,” John breathed, pressing his forehead to the other man’s. “You just—God, you feel amazing.”  
“John, move. Please,” Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed.  
John gladly began moving his hips, slowly at first, but quickly building up speed until he was roughly fucking Sherlock.  
“John, I c—I can’t—Need to,” Sherlock gasped, tears of pressure leaking out of his eyes.  
“Cum for me, Sherlock Holmes,” John whispered into the detective’s ear, fighting to talk through the haze of his own arousal and burning pressure. “Cum for me and let me see you fall apart. Come on, Sherlock, I need to feel you.” He paused to kiss the other man briefly before nibbling his ear. “Cum for me.”  
He didn’t exactly know what made him say all that, but he was glad he did, for after his last words, Sherlock’s muscles clenched around him and he came with a soundless scream, his cum squirting over both of their torsos.  
Seeing Sherlock Holmes so vulnerable and feeling those powerful muscles clenching so perfectly caused the bomb of pressure to explode in John’s mind and his mind whited out as he came into Sherlock, positive that his orgasm was louder than Sherlock’s.  
Eventually, he pulled out of the detective and collapsed next to him, his head on the taller man’s chest, an arm across his torso.  
“Wow,” he panted, loving how Sherlock’s smooth chest felt against his cheek.  
“Yeah,” Sherlock breathed, an arm draped around his doctor.   
“Been too long since we did that.”  
“Far too long,” Sherlock agreed. “Could we do it again?”  
John chuckled before saying, “Maybe later. I’m not exactly twenty.”   
“John?” Sherlock said after they’d laid together for some time.  
“Yes, Sherlock?” John asked, looking up at his detective.  
“I think I love you,” Sherlock said, looking intently into his doctor’s eyes.  
“I love you too,” John said intently, smiling and kissing Sherlock before snuggling into his chest.

 

Oh, my god, I’m tired. Okay, so I know that was a bit long, but I hope you enjoyed it. Since it is late at night and I’m tired and I need to go watch the second season finale of Sherlock AND I’m on my period, I hope you’ll forgive any mistakes and/or typos (you girls know that you’re lucky you’re getting this tonight at all). As always, your reviews fill me up with a pleasant warm feeling that lingers all day long. The next chapter will be up tomorrow or the day after. *Huggles*


	10. From Bad To Worse

Chapter Ten: From Bad to Worse

John woke up on the sofa and had a brief moment of panic when he couldn’t see Sherlock. He was about to call out when he heard retching noises coming from the bathroom. He got up and walked naked to the bathroom where a still-naked Sherlock was curled over the toilet, violent spasms jerking his body as he continued vomiting.  
“Oh, god,” John said worriedly, kneeling beside Sherlock and putting a hand on the other man’s clammy back. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”  
John sat there, rubbing Sherlock’s back while he continued puking on and off for about ten more minutes before Sherlock finally panted. “Okay… I’m done.”  
“You sure?” John asked as Sherlock flushed the toilet again.  
“Yeah,” Sherlock breathed, resting his sweat-soaked forehead on the cool porcelain.   
“Okay. I’ll go make you some tea.” John placed a kiss on Sherlock’s temple, moved away locks of sweaty hair plastered to the detective’s forehead, and got up to go to the kitchen.  
While the water was boiling, he got dressed and checked on Sherlock, who was still sprawled on the floor of the bathroom and clutching the toilet, though thankfully not retching anymore. As John continued making the tea and toast, he heard a knock on the door.  
Sighing, he abandoned his preparations and went to get the door.  
“Good morning, John,” Mycroft said with his slightly-real cheeriness and smile.  
“Mycroft,” John greeted simply, opening the door for the elder Holmes man.  
John returned to the kitchen while Mycroft closed the door behind him and looked around for a moment before joining John.  
“I’m fairly curious about the stains and smell on the sofa,” he said while John set two plates and cups on the table after moving a microscope and some beakers.  
“No, you’re not,” John said, not looking at Mycroft while he retrieved the butter and jam. “You already know what those stains are.”  
“True, but I wanted to get you to tell me,” Mycroft replied, smiling wider.  
John merely sighed in frustration as Sherlock came into the room wearing nothing but a bed sheet.  
“Really, brother? The bed sheet again?” Mycroft asked exasperatedly as Sherlock sat down in front of his plate.  
“My flat, I can wear what I like,” Sherlock said irritably.  
“Sherlock, you—” Mycroft started, his voice serious and concerned.  
“You: Sherlock, you shouldn’t have done that. Me: It was for a case. You: Are cases really that important? Me: Yes. You: You could’ve died. Me: But I didn’t, so there’s no problem. You: You know how dangerous this is. You could fall back into your old habits. Me: But I won’t. You: But you can’t know that. Me: But I do. You: How could you possibly be so sure? Me: John would never let me go there again. Are we done?” Sherlock said tiredly, carrying out his brother’s side of the conversation in a mockingly whiny tone.  
“No, as a matter of fact, we’re not,” Mycroft said, accustomed to his younger brother’s childish mannerisms.   
Sherlock groaned before looking at his doctor.  
“John,” he said tiredly.  
“Yeah?” John asked, looking up at the other man after swallowing a bite of toast with strawberry jam.  
“I’m hungry.”  
“Well, there’s food right in front of you,” John said in confusion.  
The detective merely shook his sheet to say that he didn’t have any hands free.  
John sighed in frustration, pulled Sherlock’s plate over, buttered the toast, and held it up to the detective’s mouth.  
“So why are you here?” John asked Mycroft as Sherlock took a bite of his toast. “Do you have a case for us?”  
“No, actually,” Mycroft said, his hands in his pocket. “I am here to extend an invitation for tomorrow night.”  
“What kind of invitation?” John asked, sipping his tea while still holding up Sherlock’s toast.  
Mycroft looked at his little brother expectantly, who merely shrugged while chewing. Mycroft gave him a look of agitated and hurt disbelief and shook his head in disappointment, looking away bitterly.  
“What? What’s wrong?” John asked, slightly concerned.  
“Oh,” Sherlock said understandingly, nodding for John to put his toast down. “Apparently, I’ve deleted Mycroft’s birthday.”  
“Wait, what?” John said in shock. “You deleted your own brother’s birthday?”  
Sherlock merely shrugged as if in apology for an insignificant mistake.  
“Your own brother,” John repeated in disbelief.  
“If it helps, it took me quite a long time to delete it,” Sherlock said indifferently.  
“What would make you delete your own brother’s birthday?” John demanded incredulously.  
“I believe it was the chemical composition of asphalt,” Sherlock replied, nodding to his cup of tea while looking at his doctor.  
“The chemical composition of asphalt?” John repeated in disbelief, raising the cup to Sherlock’s lips. “You deleted your brother’s birthday for the chemical composition of asphalt.”  
“You keep saying ‘your brother’ and ‘your own brother’ as if being reminded of our relation will make me care more, when all you’re really doing is taking the relationship that you wish you’d had with your sister and projecting it onto Mycroft and I,” Sherlock said, taking another sip of tea.  
John sighed, put Sherlock’s cup down, and ran his hands through his hair.  
“So will you accept my invitation?” Mycroft asked.  
“Tomorrow night?” John asked, looking at the other man.  
“Six to ten,” Mycroft confirmed.  
“We’ll be there,” John said.  
“Wonderful. See you then.”  
“Wait, that’s it?” John asked as Mycroft turned to leave. “You came all this way just to invite us to your party? You could’ve done that by phone.”  
“Well, I had also intended to have a conversation with my dear brother about his recent drug episode but, as you saw, he managed to carry out both sides of that conversation on his own. And I have things to tend to, so I had best be off.”  
With that, the elder Holmes turned around and promptly left 221B Baker Street.  
“So what does a Mycroft Holmes birthday party entail?” John asked after a while.  
“Socialising for a while, dinner, dancing,” Sherlock answered, letting go of the top part of his sheet so that he could drink his tea.  
“What should we get him?”  
“You can get him whatever you like,” Sherlock responded apathetically. “Though he does get quite an abundance of ties and watches, so you may want to avoid that.”  
“What, you’re not gonna get him anything?” John asked curiously.  
“I wouldn’t be his brother if I didn’t give him a cheap, practically useless gift with an ironic twist,” Sherlock replied, his eyes on his tea and toast.  
John just sighed and took his plate to the sink. After he finished with his tea, he took a shower, got dressed again, and went out to surgery.

 

At eight o’clock, just as he was leaving, Sherlock appeared at the doors in front of him, now fully dressed.  
“Good lord, Sherlock,” he said in surprise. “You could phone, you know.”  
“Boring. Waste of time. Come on,” the detective said simply, turning and walking away.  
“Where are we going?” John asked as they walked down an alleyway.  
“There’s a man based around here whom I believe works for Moriarty,” Sherlock explained as John followed him through the twists and turns of London’s back alleys.   
“What makes you think that?”  
“Members of the homeless network have seen him dealing with drugs and weapons, referring to his boss as a consulting criminal and my opposite, and have heard him use the name Moriarty,” Sherlock replied, only half-focusing on John.  
“So, what’s your plan?”  
“Find him, find out what he knows about Moriarty.”  
“And how are you planning on doing that?” John asked as they walked deeper into the bowels of London.   
“Not sure yet,” Sherlock said. “Do you have your gun?”  
“No.”  
“Oh, right, I have it.”  
“You’re planning on shooting him?” John asked curiously.  
“If it comes to that.”  
“Do you have a torch?” John asked as they walked through the rapidly darkening alleyways.   
“Knew there was something I forgot.”  
“Great,” John said sarcastically.  
They walked for a bit longer before Sherlock abruptly stopped, causing John to run into him.  
“What is it?” John asked quietly, struggling to see through the darkness.  
“Shh,” Sherlock said, holding up a gloveless hand and looking and listening intently.  
“You might as well come out,” the detective said after a while. “I know you’re here.”  
A moment passed before a gunshot sounded and the brick next to Sherlock’s head broke apart a bit, brick dust going into the air.  
“Sherlock,” John said warningly.   
Sherlock pulled out the doctor’s gun and pointed it in the direction of the shot.   
Another shot sounded and John heard the sound of a bullet whizzing past his ear. Sherlock fired off a couple of rounds before the gun was shot from his hand, eliciting a small cry of pain from the detective.  
“John?” he said, a note of anxiety in his voice.  
“Yeah?” John asked as a bullet hit the wall right next to his head.  
“This may not have been my best idea.”  
“What do we do?”  
A bullet shot by Sherlock, centimetres from his eye. “Umm, run.”  
He grabbed John’s hand and they ran back through the alleyways, bullets following them and just barely missing them.  
“Why can’t he hit us?” John said as they ran, their hands no longer connected.  
“He wants us to run,” Sherlock explained distractedly, focusing on his mental map of London. “This is his idea of a fun game.”  
“You lost my gun,” John said a bit breathlessly.  
“I’ll get you a new one,” Sherlock said impatiently as a bullet narrowly missed his shoulder.  
“I loved that gun,” John said touchily as Sherlock pulled him to the right.  
“Stop being sentimental over an inanimate object.”  
“You better get my gun back.”  
“Forget about the gun, J—Ahh!!”  
Sherlock gave a strangled cry of pain and was spun around by the force of a bullet plunging into his side.  
“Sherlock1” John cried as the detective hit the ground and quickly scrambled up, bullets still whizzing past them.   
“Move!” Sherlock said as they both took off running again.  
They eventually got to an alley and saw Mycroft’s black car at the other end, the door open. The two men put in an extra burst of speed, John barely pausing when a bullet grazed his upper arm. They collapsed into the car and it pulled away.   
“Why is it that you can never seem to stay out of trouble these days, brother dear?” Mycroft asked, seated across from Sherlock and beside Althea, who was busily texting.  
“Why is it that you, dear brother, can never seem to leave me alone?” Sherlock asked as he caught his breath, hand against his side, pain in his voice.  
“Someone needs to clean up your messes,” Mycroft said simply.  
“Do you have a first-aid kit?” John asked, not in the mood to deal with their brotherly feuding.  
Althea reached under the seat and held a kit out to the doctor, her eyes on her phone.  
“Thank you,” John said, getting down on the floor beside the wounded detective.  
“Heh. He’s on his knees for you, Sherlock,” she said, smiling without looking at them.  
“I’m tending to a bullet wound,” John said almost indignantly before turning back to Sherlock, who had a confused expression on his face. “Take off your coat and jumper.”  
“Ooh, telling him to take off his clothes,” Althea said playfully.  
“Shut up,” John said as Sherlock did as John told him, still confused and wincing a bit.   
John put his hands above the injury and twisted the other man so that he had a good angle. He pushed Sherlock’s white t-shirt up and was slightly surprised when the detective’s hand appeared to hold his shirt well above his wound, his other arm across the back of the seat, his confusion pushed away for the moment.   
“Okay, there’s no swelling around the area,” John said professionally, his fingers gently pressing around the wound. “No pain anywhere else, so none of his organs are damaged. Good.”  
John took a bottle of alcohol out of the kit and poured a bit over his hands before pouring more over Sherlock’s wound. Sherlock gasped in pain and hissed shaky breaths in and out through violently clenched teeth, nails digging into the skin of his ribcage.  
“Easy,” John said, stroking the detective’s tensed hand. “Easy, it’s okay. You’re gonna be fine.”  
After a bit, John got him to move his nails to his shirt and directed his own attention to the wound. He took a pair of tweezers from the kit and, after examining the entry point for a moment, inserted the tweezers into the wound. He felt Sherlock stop breathing and looked up to see the detective’s head turned the other way, forehead pressed firmly against the window.  
“Sherlock, breathe,” John said firmly, a note of panic in his voice. “Breathe, Sherlock.”  
After a moment, Sherlock exhaled harshly and went back to his shaky breathing.  
“John, would you like me to do anything?” Mycroft asked, looking almost fearfully at his brother.  
“Umm, make sure he keeps breathing. Talk to him, try to distract him,” John said, slowly slipping back into doctor mode as he pushed the tweezers back into the wound.   
“Oh, yeah, as… As if talking to Mycroft is going to help me forget my pain,” Sherlock said, his voice tight with pain as he watched John and tried to breathe evenly.  
“I could give him morphine if you like,” Mycroft offered, ignoring his brother’s comment.  
“With all the other drugs he’s taken recently, his body’s incredibly vulnerable and throwing morphine or any other drug into the mix could stop his heart,” John explained clinically, trying to block out Sherlock’s moans and hisses of pain.  
“Here we go,” John said after a moment more, pulling out the tweezers.  
“Wait, is that half of a bullet?” Althea asked.  
“Half of a bullet?” Sherlock said, pain and anger in his voice. “John!”  
“Well, it’s not my fault,” John said, dropping the bullet fragment into a petri dish offered to him by Mycroft. “I’m guessing you don’t want me to tell you that now I’ll have to pretty much root around for the other half. Well, in a professional way.”  
Sherlock merely groaned and stared out the window.  
“Mycroft, you may want to talk now,” John advised, lowering his hands, eyes, and tweezers back to the wound.  
“John,” Mycroft said after a moment. “Has Sherlock ever told you about the time he made a teacher cry?”  
Sherlock gave a stifled laugh spliced with pain, eyes on the world outside.  
“You actually made a teacher cry?” John asked incredulously while still focusing on his work.  
“He was about eight and his teacher was doing a math lesson and he called her an idiot,” Mycroft explained, looking affectionately at his brother.  
“She was teaching it wrong,” Sherlock elaborated with a little less pain in his voice. “She told me she was teaching by the book and I said the book was wrong and that she was an idiot.”  
“And that made her cry?” John asked curiously as he pulled out the other bullet half and set up the needle and black thread.  
“I also told her that she shouldn’t bother trying to become a college professor because she’d only end up crying herself to sleep and the reason she’d had three boyfriends in a month wasn’t because she wasn’t their type, but because she was dumb as a brick and breathed ignorance and the only reason she got the job was because Daddy made a special phone call,” Sherlock said while John stitched him up.  
“I can’t believe you actually spoke that way to a teacher,” John said in amazement as he applied bandages and medical tape.  
“He’s been speaking that way to everyone since he could speak,” Mycroft said.  
“Which was before Mycroft could talk,” Sherlock bragged, lowering his shirt.  
“Now, John, why don’t you tell me what happened while my dear little brother stitches you up.”  
John had forgotten about his own injury, but at Mycroft’s mention, his right arm flared up with pain.  
Sherlock moved to the other side of the seat so that he could tend to John’s arm. The doctor took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve, hissing when the detective applied the alcohol. He slowly explained their attempted confrontation while Sherlock stitched up his graze.  
“John, you’re supposed to keep Sherlock from doing stupid things,” Mycroft chided when John was done.  
“Well, it kind of happened rather quickly,” John said.  
“I had a gun,” Sherlock added, done with John’s arm.  
“That got shot out of your hand,” Mycroft pointed out as the car stopped in front of 221B Baker Street. “John, be a dear and don’t let him do anything else that could get him killed. Keeping in mind that I have the power to put guards on your doorstep twenty-four/seven,” he added to his little brother with a false smile.   
Sherlock merely grabbed his coat and blazer and stormed out of the car, John quickly following him.  
“I’ll see you boys tomorrow night,” Mycroft said before the car drove away.

Okay, so I know that chapter was really long and not my best, but I hope you enjoyed it. And I know the timing’s a bit weird with them only knowing each other for six months and the thing a Buckingham Palace already happening, but just go with it. And, yes, I have a thing about hurting Sherlock, but he’s done being injured… Unless I think of something else. Anyway, reviews make me explode on the inside with happiness. I love you all and all of you are gorgeous and beautiful and amazing. *Huggles*


	11. The Party Pt One

Chapter Eleven: The Party Pt. 1

John and Sherlock got into the black car that had appeared outside their flat and John surreptitiously glanced at Sherlock’s empty lap, a gift wrapped little box in his own hands.   
“Did you really not get him anything?” John asked disapprovingly, looking at the other man as the car moved through London.  
“Of course I did,” Sherlock said almost indignantly, pulling a ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket.  
“A pen,” John said disbelievingly.  
“No, no, not just any pen, John,” Sherlock said, smirking at his doctor while holding both ends of the pen. “This is my pen. This pen has been used in many a successful case. This pen is royalty, John.”  
“How generous of you,” John said sarcastically, looking out the window as he rolled his eyes.  
“Well, I am an Internet phenomenon, and I should think it would be an honour to be allowed an object that has be utilised by such a phenomenon,” Sherlock said, his voice dripping sarcasm and irony, a playful smile on his face.  
“You’re a git, you know that?” John said, also smiling, as both of them chuckled and Sherlock put the pen back into his coat.  
“So what did you end up getting him?” Sherlock asked after a moment.  
“Don’t you already know?” John asked in surprise as the car moved through London, the setting sun casting rays of golden light across the city, the clouds igniting with a fiery explosion of gold, orange, and pink.  
“Didn’t pay that much attention to you,” Sherlock said, looking straight ahead. “Though judging by the size of the package and the apparent weight, a CD, two because you don’t want him to think you’re being cheap. Opera because that’s what you think he likes.”  
“Rutland Boughton’s The Immortal Hour. Will he like it?” John asked uncertainly.  
“Of course he’ll like it, John. Mycroft loves the opera,” Sherlock said, still looking out the windshield as they left the city.  
“Mycroft doesn’t live in the city?” John asked in confusion as industry turned to country.  
“His work, which takes up most of his life, revolves around the city,” Sherlock responded. “He needs to be able to get away from it all and relax every once in a while.”  
“Every once in a while?” John repeated, brow furrowed.  
“Like I said, his job takes up most of his life,” Sherlock explained. “He has a flat in the city so that he can be nearby should something happen, but he enjoys coming here when he can.”  
“So how many people are gonna be there?” John asked after a while.  
“A lot,” Sherlock said simply.  
“All family?”  
The detective scoffed. “Now that would be torturous.”  
He said no more on the subject and John looked out the window at the rolling scenery, marvelling at how peaceful and hopeful everything looked when blanketed by the sun’s dying glow.  
After a while more, the car turned up a long, winding driveway lined with cars and pulled up in front of the house of Mycroft Holmes.  
“Oh, my god,” John said, absolutely stunned, as he gazed in wonder at the gigantic cream-coloured mansion with turrets and cupolas, massive windows, and lights in nearly every window, turning the house into a beacon of life and hope.  
“John, are you okay?” Sherlock asked, calm with a touch of concern.  
“This is incredible,” John breathed, his eyes wide, jaw hanging open.  
“It’s a mansion,” Sherlock said simply.  
“And it’s incredible,” John repeated, still gazing at wonder at the massive and magnificent house.  
“Oh, you’re not used to houses like this,” Sherlock said understandingly, nodding at the doctor.  
“No, what I’m used to is a two-bedroom flat in the city, not an enormous mansion in the country.”  
“Would you like to see the inside of it?”  
John finally tore his eyes away from the mansion and looked in wonder at the detective smirking at him, a glint in his blue-green eyes. Sherlock got out of the car and held his hand out to John, gently pulling the doctor out of the car.  
They went up the walkway lined with large spherical lights, several people milling around outside, all dressed very posh. A couple of people were smoking, but John pulled Sherlock past them before the detective could become tempted by the smoke. They entered the house and John was shocked into stillness by the immensely grand foyer with a sweeping staircase, expensive paintings, and a large and elaborate chandelier hanging high above his head.  
“How… How does he do this?” John asked in amazed disbelief, his eyes again exhibiting protuberance, his jaw experiencing a magnetic pull towards the floor.  
“Personifying the British government has its perks,” Sherlock explained, amused by the doctor’s reaction.  
“May I take your coat, sir?” a young male butler asked, looking from Sherlock to John.  
“No, thank you, Thompson,” Sherlock said pleasantly.  
“I’m good,” John said, still a bit in shock.  
Thompson nodded, left them, and they walked into the colossal ballroom to the left, the room one half open space, one half filled with circular tables with elaborate floral centrepieces on each table.  
John just sighed and shook his head at the impressiveness of it all before looking at the box in his hands and wondering where he should put it.  
“Come on,” Sherlock said, taking the doctor’s elbow and walking him through the room and the huge group of people around the room.  
“See that man over there?” Sherlock said, nodding to a rather old man in a blue suit and white shirt. “He’s the prime minister of Sweden. The man standing next to him is our prime minister. His wife had an affair, but he’s trying to keep it out of the press. He also had his dog euthanized earlier today, but he’s trying to get over it even though he loved the dog a bit more than his wife and had it for thirteen years. He’s saying that he didn’t bring his wife because she’s sick, but really he just doesn’t want to be around her.  
“That man over there is the prime minister of Ireland and he’s only here to try to gain more power and more allies in the British government. The young lady next to him is his assistant. He’s physically abusing her—only a bit—but she won’t tell anyone because one: she needs the job and two: she feels she deserves the abuse.”  
“What about your family?” John asked curiously.  
“See that girl over there?” Sherlock nodded to a girl of about sixteen sitting alone at a table. The girl had long, straight black hair, black make-up and nail polish, and a red circular gem handing around her neck by a thin black cord. She was wearing a simple black dress and black fishnet gloves and had a look of utter desolation on her pale and flawless face, her attention directed to her iPod, her elbow on the table, her head in her hand.  
“That’s my cousin, Evelyn. She’s having problems with her parents, but they forced her to come here because they want to give an appearance of normalcy. And they thought that she would injure herself if left alone, which she would. Not that they care, they just don’t want to deal with another self-inflicted injury. She’s been suffering from anorexia and chronic loneliness since she was, oh, eight. She’s gay, but her parents don’t approve, that’s another reason they brought her here, they want to find her a boyfriend. She’s not allowed to be herself apart from some of her clothing and her music. Her parents control what she watches, what she buys, where she goes to school—she goes to a very conservative private school—what she eats, etcetera. She’s been cutting herself for about two years, tried to commit suicide twice and her parents forced her into an ‘anti-gay’ program to try to ‘heal’ her.”  
“My god, poor girl,” John said empathetically.  
“I hate her parents,” Sherlock remarked as they continued walking.  
“Because they’re homophobic?”  
“Because they’re idiots,” Sherlock said rather bitterly, not looking at John.  
“Isn’t everyone an idiot compared to you?”  
“You’re not.”  
John was shocked into stillness for a moment before Sherlock pulled him into a little room off the ballroom that was filled with gifts.  
Sherlock took the gift from John’s hands and tossed it haphazardly onto the pile.  
“Be careful,” John said worriedly.  
“Oh, don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Come on,” Sherlock said apathetically, leaving the room again.  
“Refreshment, sir?” a butler holding a tray of champagne flutes asked John.  
“Umm, no thanks. Why didn’t he ask you?” John asked Sherlock once the butler had gone.  
“These are Mycroft’s servants, they know I don’t eat or drink,” the detective replied, looking around with trepidation at all the people.  
“Sherlock,” a voice said behind them with false cheer.  
They turned and saw a tall, wall-built man in his forties with short brown hair and brown eyes that betrayed the malice that he felt for the detective.  
“Elijah,” Sherlock said, not bothering to even partially conceal his distaste for the other man. “John, this is Elijah Prator. Elijah, Dr John Watson. Elijah is a friend of Mycroft’s.”  
“So you’re the one friend that Sherlock has,” Elijah said, shaking John’s hand.  
“And you must know how hard that is, being friends with a Holmes man,” John replied, trying to ignore the animosity crackling between the other two men.  
“Oh, yes, I know how difficult their family can be. Especially Sherlock here,” Elijah said, not moving his eyes from the detective’s.  
“How’s the erectile dysfunction going?” Sherlock asked casually, his eyes boring into the other man’s.   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elijah said, his small smile threatening to turn into a snarl.  
“Oh, of course you don’t. Especially since the erectile dysfunction is just a clever lie you told your wife to conceal the fact that what really happened is you got herpes from her boss, whom she also fancies, by the way.”  
“You know, I’d forgotten how much I always wanted to punch you,” Elijah said, his smile completely replaced by a look of abject dislike.  
“I suggest you try it and see what happens,” Sherlock challenged, his head held high, eyes level with the other man’s.  
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” John said, trying to get in between the two men and distract them. “You’ve both made your point. You’re both plenty tough.”  
“You think you could win in a fight?” Elijah demanded, ignoring John.  
“I know that you’re an idiot and I’m the better fighter,” Sherlock responded venomously.  
“Elijah, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as Elijah began to move threateningly toward the detective. “Not here. Please.”  
“My apologies, Mycroft,” Elijah said after a moment, looking amiably at the other man. “It seems I’m out of practice when it comes to interacting with your brother.”  
“It’s no trouble,” Mycroft said, smiling, a champagne flute in his hand. “Most people wish to harm him every time he opens his mouth.”  
“Indeed. I’ll just be over there, shall I?” Elijah said, nodding in a general direction.  
“We’ll talk later,” Mycroft assured.  
Elijah nodded and walked past Sherlock, slamming their shoulders together. The tension that remained in the air was a palpable, almost suffocating static that made the air hot and thin.  
“So,” John said after a moment, his voice breaking the tension and releasing cool oxygen back into the air. “Um, happy birthday, Mycroft.”  
The elder Holmes smiled at John and nodded.   
“Why thank you, John,” he said, holding his free hand out to his little brother palm-up. “So glad you could make it.”  
He looked expectantly at Sherlock, who merely raised his eyebrows and shrugged a bit. Mycroft tilted his head and gave his brother a look of doubtful certainty. Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes, and put a pack of cigarettes nicked from Elijah into Mycroft’s hand.  
“Like I said,” Mycroft continued, putting the pack in his suit pocket before taking a sip of champagne. “So glad you could come.”  
“Oh, in honour of the anniversary of your birth, dear brother,” Sherlock said, reaching into his coat pocket and presenting the pen like a sword. “I give you a pen that has been an integral part of many solved cases. This pen has been in the hands of an Internet phenomenon and I can only hope that it serves you well.”  
Mycroft took the pen with a genuine smile and a chuckle.   
“Mummy’s looking for you, by the way,” he informed his little brother, still smiling.  
“Mm, fireplace?” Sherlock asked.  
“Last I saw her.”  
Sherlock nodded and led John to the other side of the room, adjacent to the foyer, stopping a few times to greet relatives or acquaintances and introduce John.  
“There’s a fireplace in this room?” John asked as they parted with a cousin of Sherlock’s.   
“No, but Mycroft saw her a while ago, so she would be in this room by now,” Sherlock explained as they came upon a circle of plush armchairs.  
“Sherlock,” an old woman sitting in the chair across from them greeted affectionately.  
John thought that this woman was Mrs Holmes until the woman in the chair in front of them stood up and turned to face them.  
John instantly identified her by the slightly curly pitch-black hair cascading a bit past her shoulders and the piercingly sharp blue eyes that spoke of a woman still in her prime. Her pale skin was wrinkled, but not much, and if John had to guess her age, he would say early sixties even though he knew that she must be older. John squirmed a bit under the intensity of her gaze and wondered if she possessed the same gift as her sons. Her cold gaze certainly made him feel as if she knew all his secrets.   
But then she smiled, the ice melting and her eyes becoming warm, and John could breathe again.  
“Sherlock,” she said lovingly, her demeanour warm and confident as she embraced her taller son. “It’s so good to see you again. It’s been too long.”  
“It’s good to see you too, Mum,” Sherlock said, his voice slightly vulnerable.  
They released each other and Mrs Holmes turned to John, her eyes clinical and assessing.  
“And you must be Dr John Watson,” she said, her voice inscrutable as she held out a hand.  
“I am indeed,” John said as he gripped her surprisingly strong hand. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Holmes.”  
“The pleasure is all mine, Dr Watson. And please, call me Ivory.”  
“Then I must insist that you call me John,” John said, surprised at how at ease he was around a member of the Holmes family.   
“Well, John, would you like to meet some of the others?” Ivory asked calmly.  
“Please,” John said curiously.  
Ivory turned to the rest of the circle of six other elders, all looking as old as or slightly older than her, and began with the woman to her immediate right.   
“John, this is Eleanor Crowler, my sister and very best friend. This is Albert Gormer, a second cousin of Sherlock’s. This is Roberta Gormer, Albert’s wife. Francesca Capaldi, a step-sister-in-law of mine, Norman Capaldi, Francesca’s brother, and Bethanora O’Riley, another cousin.”  
“It’s, um, nice to meet you all,” John said rather awkwardly as all of the elders nodded their greeting.  
“It’s nice to see that Sherlock’s finally found someone to be with,” Roberta said approvingly, her voice about thirty years younger than her eighty-year-old form.   
“Oh, we’re not—” John started automatically before thinking a moment. “Actually, yes, I suppose we are boyfriends.”  
“I knew it,” Roberta said victoriously, holding her hand out to Francesca. “I knew it would be a man.”  
“That’s the last time I ever made a bet with you,” Francesca said bitterly as she handed over quite a bit of money.  
“Oh, that’s what you said twenty years ago,” Roberta said happily, counting up her winnings.  
“I’m gonna go show John around,” Sherlock said, putting a hand on the small of John’s back.  
“Ask Mycroft how many drinks he’s had,” Roberta called as they started to walk away. “I’m betting at least ten by the end of the night.”  
“Well, I like your family a lot more than mine,” John said as they moved to the adjacent wall across from the foyer.  
“That’s only because they’re different,” Sherlock said dismissively as they leaned against the wall, looking out over the crowd.   
“And because they’re more interesting, exotic, and nicer than my family,” John added, looking at the detective.  
“Only one of those three can’t be explained by it being a different family,” Sherlock said, looking back at his doctor.  
“And there’s a lot more of them,” John said.  
“Partially—actually, mostly—in an attempt to gain power,” Sherlock explained, looking back at everyone.  
“Are you really that close to all of them? You know what I mean,” John added at the detective’s expression of amused disbelief.  
“Like I said, attempt to gain power,” Sherlock answered. “Though they are partly here because they care for Mycroft. The power drive is different for different people. You said you were my boyfriend.”  
“I did, didn’t I?” John said, not looking at the other man.  
“Why?”   
“Don’t you know?” John asked, turning his gaze to Sherlock’s.  
“Don’t you want to tell me?”  
“Well, it’s…it’s because I love you,” John said, still feeling a bit weird at saying ‘I love you’ to Sherlock Holmes.  
“What?” he asked of the detective’s smirk. “Is that a bad thing?”  
“No. It’s a good thing. Very good.”  
“Why?”   
“Because I love you too,” Sherlock said, his voice and eyes filled with affection.  
The two men gazed lovingly at each other and John felt more at home than he ever had in his entire life.

Sorry that there’s no mush. But, hey, there’s fluff. And I’d just like to point out that this is my own interpretation of the Holmes family and how they would act, etc. This is also what I personally view Mycroft’s house as being like and how I picture a birthday party of his going. I have no basis for this other than my own mind. That being said, reviews all go to the Bring To Life Project which involves me taking reviews and digitally creating them into a sentient being of kindness and affection. (“It’s alive! It’s aliiiiiiivvvvvveeeee!!!). I love all of you and, again, if any of you wishes to talk/rant/whatever, I am always here for you. *Huggles*


	12. The Party Pt Two

Okay, so I know it’s gotten to the point where there’s really not much plot, but I promise it’ll get better. Moriarty will eventually be in some way involved and there may be a bit of Sheriarty if you’re into that. But for now, there’s the party to continue and the Johnlock to mush.   
Thank you to off of the fabulous little otters who have followed or favourite me and to my special golden otter FrankandJoe3 who deserves a golden hedgehog for being awesome. You guys fill my heart with joy and I really do love all of you and I wish I could meet you in real life so that I could tell you how awesome you are. Anywhoodle…

Chapter Twelve: The Party Pt. 2

After a while longer of milling around and talking, dinner was called and everyone took their seats. Food was brought out by the large number of butlers and everyone delicately dined while engaging in intellectual conversation with the others at their table, a Mozart symphony gently playing in the background.   
John had been seated at a table in between Sherlock and Lestrade, who, like John, was only there because of a connection to a Holmes man. Next to Sherlock was Ivory, then Mycroft, his wife, Jennifer (they had amicably split up some time ago, but were still married for appearance purposes, the children, and because they were genuinely still friends), the ten-year-old Simon, thirteen-year-old Willow, Eleanor, and then Lestrade.  
“It’s a shame your children were unable to attend, Eleanor,” Ivory said to her sister as they all enjoyed starter salads and rolls.  
“Yes, how are they doing?” Mycroft asked curiously.  
“Cheryl is caught up in some work project in America,” Eleanor responded proudly. “And Doreen simply has far too much to do in her home in Tokyo. Though they both send their regards,” she added, smiling at Mycroft.  
“Eleanor’s daughters have become quite successful in their separate countries,” Mycroft informed Lestrade and John. “Cheryl is on her way to becoming quite a distinguished filmmaker and Doreen is fast becoming Japan’s most gifted lawyer.”  
“Though it’s not much compared to what Ivory’s boys have accomplished,” Eleanor told the two outsiders modestly. “A man who controls the British government and the world’s only consulting detective.”  
“Your blog is really interesting,” Willow told John while Mycroft and Sherlock held their heads a bit higher.  
“You read my blog?” John asked the girl in surprise.  
“All the time,” Willow replied matter-of-factly, tucking a strand of long golden hair (inherited from her mother) behind her ear, her hazel eyes shining with curiosity, equine features both delicate and strong. “I love reading about what it’s like to live with Uncle Sherlock.”  
“As do I,” said Simon, who looked like a tiny Sherlock with glasses. “Though admittedly, I’m more intrigued by the scientific aspect rather than the domestic.”  
John didn’t quite know how Mycroft could produce the spitting image of his brother, but there it was, sitting right across from John: a miniature Sherlock Holmes identical in every way right down to the same brilliant, assessing, aquamarine eyes.  
“Simon is rather gifted in the fields of mathematics and science,” Jennifer said proudly.  
“Wow, so you’re just like Sherlock in appearance and intelligence,” John marvelled while the boy beamed proudly.   
“Oh, god help us, two Sherlocks,” Lestrade said with a joking kind of fear, taking a big swallow of wine.  
“Though we do hope that Simon will amount to more than my dear brother. No offence,” Mycroft added at his mother’s sharp look.  
“But I want to be like Uncle Sherlock,” Simon insisted in the slightly whiny voice of an irritated child.  
“But your dad has such an amazing job,” Lestrade told the kids, trying to help Mycroft. “Don’t you guys wanna have a job like his?”  
“No,” they both said in immediate unison.   
“I wanna be the world’s second consulting detective and wear nothing but a bed sheet in Buckingham Palace,” Simon said eagerly, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as John and Sherlock struggled to refrain from laughing.  
“If you are ever lucky enough to go to Buckingham Palace, you will be even more impeccably dressed than you are now,” Mycroft informed his son as the butlers brought out a main course of rosemary chicken in white wine sauce with steamed vegetables and mashed potatoes atop a bed of white rice.  
“What about you, Willow?” John asked the girl to direct the conversation away from Simon’s aspirations. “Do you enjoy math and science as much as your brother?”  
“Oh, god, no,” Willow replied vehemently. “I’m terrible at math and science, absolute rubbish. I’m always having Simon tutor me.”  
“Though Willow does have her own remarkable talents in the field of art and language,” Jennifer said, looking down at her food.  
“Really?” John asked the girl curiously in a way that encouraged her to elaborate.  
“I can play fourteen instruments, I’m a gifted writer, I can sing, and I can speak forty two languages,” Willow said, somehow managing not to sound ostentatious about her talents.   
“Seriously?” Lestrade asked incredulously as he and John gaped at the girl. “Forty two languages? That’s amazing.”  
She shrugged modestly while sitting up a bit straighter and holding her head a bit higher.  
“What instruments do you play?” John asked in curious wonder.   
“Violin, harp, piano, flute, clarinet, organ, guitar, cello, drums, xylophone, bass guitar, bassoon, oboe, and the marimba,” Willow listed, counting on her fingers.  
“That’s remarkable,” Lestrade remarked in shock.  
“You think that’s remarkable?” Willow asked rhetorically, her smile wide and bright. “Simon.”  
“What?” the boy said, startled, as he snapped to attention, having been staring into space.  
“Pi.”  
“Three point one, four, one, five, nine, two, six, five, three, five, eight, nine, seven, nine, three, two, three, eight, four, six, two, six, four, three, three, eight, three, two, seven, nine, five, zero, two, eight, eight, four, one, nine, seven, one, six, nine, three, nine, nine, three, seven, five, one, zero, five, eight, two—”  
“Cut,” Willow said, interrupting the torrent of numbers pouring through her brother’s lips, his eyes wide and absent as he went on autopilot.  
Simon shook his head and smiled at all the adults who were gaping at him in astonishment.  
“That. Is. Incredible,” John eventually said while Sherlock merely smiled at his nephew.   
“How long have you been able to do that?” Mycroft asked his son in bafflement.  
“About two days,” Simon said easily. “It’s amazing how much room I had when I cleaned out my mind.”  
“What do you mean, when you cleaned out your mind?” Jennifer asked slightly worriedly.  
“I’ve gotten my mind organised so that it’s my computer now,” Simon explained. “There’s only so much room I have and once I cleared out all the unimportant things like telly and magazines and pointless school information, I was able to put actual important information in my mind. I have a file entirely dedicated to pi and the history of it.”  
Everyone was silent before John and Mycroft turned to look at the smirking detective.  
“Are you sure he’s not Sherlock’s?” John asked Mycroft.  
“There’s a reason why Moriarty calls him The Virgin,” Mycroft replied slowly.  
“Though he has actually been acting a lot like Sherlock lately,” Jennifer said, putting a hand affectionately and protectively on her son’s head.  
“How so?” Mycroft asked, his voice a mixture of anxiety and wariness.  
“You don’t know?” John asked in confusion.  
“With Moriarty and The Woman, he hasn’t been home much as of late,” Sherlock explained, his eyes locked on Simon’s.  
“He’s developed erratic sleeping habits,” Jennifer told her husband. “He’s become sarcastic, antisocial, and arrogant at school and he’s actually walked around the house in nothing but a bed sheet.”  
“It’s so comfortable,” Simon said, ignoring the hand in his hair and maintaining eye contact with his uncle.  
“Isn’t it, though?” Sherlock agreed.  
“Simon, dear, are you feeling okay?” Ivory asked her grandson.  
“Fine. Why?” Simon replied, turning to look at his grandmother.   
“You didn’t eat your salad and you’re not touching your chicken,” Ivory said in concern.  
“What day is it?”  
“Wednesday,” Eleanor answered.  
“I’m okay for a bit,” Simon said, moving his head out of his mother’s reach as John and Sherlock started chuckling.  
“Sweetheart, you’re a growing boy,” Jennifer said worriedly as John whispered something into Sherlock’s ear. “Growing boys need to eat.”  
Simon looked to Sherlock while the detective nodded to John and leaned forward a bit, whistling to get Mycroft’s attention. The brothers looked at each other and Sherlock cocked one eyebrow. Mycroft nodded in understanding, sitting back and patting Jennifer’s hand comfortingly.  
“You know, I’m only partly going through a phase,” Simon said to his father and uncle. “I recognise in myself the signs of a childhood phase, but my passion for science and maths and puzzles, that’s real.”  
“How—?” John started curiously.  
“The only reason why you would be whispering something would be if you were talking about someone at this table. It doesn’t take a Sherlock to realise that you were talking about me, an explanation for my behaviour judging by the seriousness of your expression, the context and the fact that you’re still a doctor. And the most obvious and accurate explanation would be a phase. So you told Uncle Sherlock and Uncle Sherlock communicated to my dad that they would talk later and that my dad needn’t worry.”  
“Oh, snap,” Willow said happily, punctuating her words with an actual snap as her brother began eating.  
“God help me, I cannot deal with two Sherlocks,” John said exasperatedly.  
“That does seem like a living nightmare,” Lestrade agreed.  
“Is he still doing those experiments, Mycroft?” Eleanor asked her nephew as Sherlock and Simon looked at each other, seemingly communicating silently.   
“Experiments?” John asked curiously.  
“Oh, yes,” Mycroft said. “For years now, Simon has conducted his own experiments involving various items around the house.”  
“He’s even brought dead animals in the house to experiment on,” Jennifer said, a slight note of embarrassment in her voice.  
“I wanted to analyse the decomposition rate of rabbits versus squirrels and how their corpses react to different chemicals,” Simon explained, breaking his communication with Sherlock.  
“Simon, you don’t bring dead animals into the house,” Mycroft said sternly.  
“Well, it was either that or go to a morgue to get dead people and it’s really quite a bit easier to just go into the woods and find dead animals,” Simon said easily.  
“How about you just don’t experiment on dead things?” Jennifer suggested.  
“So, I shouldn’t learn?” Simon’s little brow furrowed a bit in confusion.  
“I didn’t say that.”  
“The way to learn best is to actually do things, find things out on your own, which is exactly what I’m doing with the animals that I find. And besides, I don’t kill them, they’re already dead. So what’s the problem? I mean, aside from the fact that you’re embarrassed to tell your friends that your son experiments on dead animals.”  
“Och det är bättre än experimentera på levande djur,” Willow put in, wanting to show off a bit.  
“They have a point,” Sherlock said, examining his nails. “She said, ‘and it’s better than experimenting on live animals’ in Swedish,” he added in response to everyone’s confused expressions.  
“Brother dear, do be quite. You’re not helping,” Mycroft said, smiling falsely at the detective.   
Simon went back to looking at Sherlock and they resumed their silent conversation, effectively ignoring Mycroft and Jennifer.  
“What other kinds of experiments has he done?” John asked curiously.  
“Testing the effects of mixing different kinds of chemicals, dissecting various kind of dead animals, examining the composition of different chemicals, that kind of thing,” Jennifer said. “Though some of his experiments do cause minor explosions.”  
“One time he caused a fish to explode in his room,” Mycroft said. “He had to switch rooms and have all of his things decontaminated.”  
“Wow. That is so Sherlock,” John marvelled.   
“Dad, can I—?” Simon started hopefully.  
“No,” Mycroft said decisively, eyes on his food.  
“But—”  
“No.”  
“He was asking if he could spend the weekend at our flat,” Sherlock explained to John.  
“Yeah, no,” Jennifer agreed. “Not that we don’t trust you, but—”  
“Ever notice that when people start a sentence with, ‘not that we don’t trust you’ or ‘no offence’, they really don’t trust you—” Sherlock started, looking at his nephew.  
“—and they really do mean offence,” Simon finished, smiling happily.  
They all talked for a while longer and in the middle of dessert, Mycroft turned off the music with a remote control and stood, tapping his wine glass with a spoon to get the attention of all one hundred and sixty three people.  
“I would like to thank you all for coming to night. It’s so night to see so many friends and family members in one place.”  
Willow lightly punched her brother and mouthed ‘crap’.  
“I know some of you have made quite a journey and your efforts are greatly appreciated,” Mycroft continued. “Some of you I finally get the great pleasure of meeting in person and others I am thrilled to be able to see again. I would also like to thank those of you who have interacted with my brother, Sherlock, for refraining from injuring him.”  
There were scattered chuckles as Mycroft gestured to Sherlock, who turned and awkwardly smiled before turning around again.  
“I would like to say more, but regrettably, I forgot that I was going to be doing this until now.”  
Simon lightly punched Willow and mouthed ‘Bull crap’.   
“So,” Mycroft continued after a few seconds of chuckling. “I suppose the only thing left to say is again, thank you for coming, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the night.”  
Everyone except for Sherlock applauded as Mycroft sat down again.  
“Mycroft, your insincerity is causing me to experience symptoms of dehydration,” Sherlock said sardonically, lightly massaging his temple.  
“The falsity of your tone is acid to my sanity, slowly melting and burning it away with each word,” Simon put in.  
“Hey,” Jennifer reproached.  
“Mum, you should be glad that Uncle Sherlock is here. It presents me with an intellectual challenge.”  
“You’re not too old for a time-out in your sister’s room, you know,” Jennifer told her son.  
Simon opened his mouth to respond when Willow put a hand over her brother’s mouth.  
“Sorry, Mum,” she said sincerely as Simon jerked out of her grip.  
About fifteen minutes later, the music changed to upbeat dance music and increased in volume and most of the guests took to the dance floor, the lights changing to those of a club.  
“So,” John said to Lestrade while Sherlock and Simon began talking about mind palaces, everyone else going to dance or socialise. “Why does everyone else think you’re here? I mean, with Mycroft and Jennifer still keeping up the appearance of being together.”  
“They know I’m a detective inspector,” Lestrade replied, drinking his wine. “So they just think I’m a friend and associate.”  
“I’m sorry,” John said genuinely, noticing the more-than-slight edge of sadness and bitterness in the other man’s tone.  
Lestrade just shrugged and downed the rest of his wine.  
“Suppose I should feel lucky that I get to be with him at all,” he said, not looking at John, while a butler refilled his glass.  
“But it’s understandable that you would want more,” John said sympathetically. “I mean, I’m lucky enough—or unlucky enough—to live with Sherlock.”  
“So you two are…?” Greg asked curiously, though not in a gossip-monger kind of way.  
“Yeah. We’re… boyfriends, I guess,” John said a bit giddily, smiling like a teenager with their first partner.  
“That’s wonderful, John,” Greg said supportively, smiling and putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. He pulled his hand away and took his vibrating mobile out of his pocket, looking at it curiously.  
“Umm, I’ll see you later, John,” he said, looking up again, a hint of excitement in his tone and eyes.  
“Later,” John said as the DI all but bolted from the table.  
“Mycroft is getting bolder,” Sherlock remarked, looking after Lestrade and causing John to jump.   
“Where’d Simon go?” John asked, looking for the boy.  
“His sister came and told him to dance with her,” Sherlock responded, turning his eyes to John.  
“Umm, where’s your father? If you don’t mind me asking,” John said delicately, voicing the question that had been in his mind all night.  
“Died ten years ago. Pulmonary embolism,” Sherlock said simply, obviously struggling not to look away from John.  
“I’m so sorry,” John said emphatically, putting a comforting hand on the detective’s.  
“Why?” Sherlock asked curiously, not responding to John’s touch. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”  
“No, it’s, um… It’s called empathy, Sherlock. Like, I feel bad for what you’ve gone through, so I apologise to show that I feel bad.”  
“Hm.” Sherlock turned back to the people on the dance floor all moving to the fast-paced music.  
“Would you, um, would you like to dance?” Sherlock asked after a while when the music had changed to something slow and romantic.  
“What?” John asked, unable to process Sherlock Holmes asking him to dance.  
Sherlock stood and offered his hand to the other man. John stared in disbelief for a moment before slowly reaching out to take his detective’s hand. Sherlock slowly and hesitantly led John to the dance floor.  
“Do you actually know how to dance?” John asked, his heart beating twice as fast as normal from nervousness and disbelief at his situation.  
“No,” Sherlock said simply as they held onto each other’s hands, confusion in his eyes.  
“Here, put your hands on my waist,” John instructed as he put his hands on the detective’s shoulders and began moving them in a slow circle.  
John looked up and into the detective’s eyes and felt a strange stirring in his heart at the realisation that what he was seeing, the vulnerability and uncertainty, was something that no one else ever got to see. That, to John, was the greatest thing about being in a relationship with a Holmes: being able to see what no one else saw and knowing that it wasn’t being taken, but willingly given.  
They moved together, bodies pressed together, arms protectively around each other, Sherlock’s chin on John’s head, and slowly moved in a circle for what felt like a glorious, heavenly eternity. Eventually, John looked up into the detective’s eyes and the doctor could see that Sherlock was fighting to keep his emotions behind a leaking dam. John put all his love and trust and respect for the other man and gently stroked the detective’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, nonverbally encouraging him to let go of his resistance.   
Sherlock looked down and when he looked back at John, the doctor was taken aback by the torrential flood of warmth and love and emotion pouring from the detective’s eyes.  
Without really thinking, John reached up, placed his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and pressed their lips together, love and trust and hope pouring into each other through their mouths. Sherlock gently put a hand on John’s cheek and in that moment, in the detective’s arms, the scarred army doctor felt like he was made of nothing but the golden glow of heavenly peace.

Wow. Fluff, much? I know that was long and there was no mush, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Again, thank you to everyone who is paying attention to my work and if any of you wishes to talk or just wants some advice from someone who is screwed up enough to write porn as a hobby, I’m always here and willing to listen. And if you wish to communicate through something other than comments, I could always respond to a comment with my email. Anyway, back to normalcy. Reviews make me sing my success in a very pitchy and annoying voice. I’ll try to update as soon as possible. <3


	13. After Party Special

Chapter Thirteen: After Party Special

Sherlock and John spent a couple more hours at the party before they departed along with some of the other guests (much to Simon’s disappointment). They were driven back to Baker Street by one of Mycroft’s many chauffeurs and spent the ride with their fingers intertwined, casting mischievous and playful glances at each other. They had spent the rest of the party in a constant state of physical contact only broken when John had to go to the bathroom, away of and apathetic towards the fact that they were not-so-subtly announcing their relationship.  
Once they’d gotten into their flat, Sherlock immediately shoved John against the closed door and attacked the doctor’s mouth with his own. John didn’t have time to react before Sherlock’s hands were all over him, pushing off his jumper and moving under his shirt.  
John had his hands on the detective’s shoulders and was about to protest when he asked himself why he would protest. They were together, after all, and being together involved sex. And he enjoyed it—loved it really—so why would he try to stop the other man?   
John almost viciously responded to the kiss, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and shoving his tongue into the other man’s mouth. John’s hands moved to push off Sherlock’s coat and scarf, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor, and began unbuttoning the detective’s shirt while Sherlock used one leg to move John’s legs apart, pressing himself against his doctor’s hip. John could feel Sherlock’s diamond-hard erection against him as he practically tore off his detective’s shirt, biting down gently on the other man’s lower lip, moaning with longing.   
They pulled away long enough for Sherlock to remove John’s shirt before they went back to devouring each other’s mouths, both of them needing more contact. Sherlock moved his hand down John’s chest and began palming the doctor’s erection through the fabric of his trousers and pants. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth and moved his hands from the detective’s curls to his belt, frantically undoing the buckle and zip. Sherlock pulled off his shoes and socks before letting his trousers and pants fall to the floor and kicking them away, his mouth never leaving John’s.  
He pushed John back against the door and shoved his hand into the doctor’s trousers and pants, causing a long and low moan to escape the doctor’s lips. As Sherlock roughly squeezed John’s hot and hard cock, John dug his nails into Sherlock’s back, causing the detective to hiss into his mouth.   
Sherlock pulled his hand out of John’s pants and hungrily tore his trousers and pants down, getting on his knees.  
“John?” Sherlock said, curiosity mixed with a barely concealed lust and need, his pupils blown with desire.  
“Yeah?” John responded, struggling to resist the urge to grab Sherlock’s head and fuck his mouth.  
“Is this what Mycroft’s assistant meant when she said you were on your knees for me?” Sherlock asked, gazing reverently at John’s hard and red cock.  
“Yeah. It’s what she meant,” John breathed, his blood and nerves screaming for Sherlock to touch him as he felt the detective’s hot breath against his already-on-fire dick.  
As if he could sense John’s impatience, Sherlock roughly grabbed his doctor’s hip with one hand and grabbed his dick with the other, running his tongue over every part with annoying slowness and delicacy. He held John’s cock while he licked up and down the shaft, ran his tongue around the head, and tickled the slit, tasting salty precum. He lifted up John’s cock to mouth at his balls and the doctor tangled his fingers in the detective’s thick locks, struggling to thrust his hips closer to the other man’s mouth. Sherlock suddenly took John’s entire dick into his mouth, supressing his gag reflex.  
John moaned in almost painful ecstasy, pulling Sherlock closer and arching his back, eyes closed. As Sherlock sucked and gently scraped his teeth over John’s cock, he moved his hand from the doctor’s balls to his arse, inserting one dry finger into his hole.  
John cried out in mostly pain and moved his hips forwards into the warm, wet comfort of Sherlock’s mouth.  
“Pocket,” he gasped, using the feel of Sherlock’s silky hair to anchor him to reality  
Sherlock removed his fingers and searched through clothing one handed while moving his head back and forth on John’s cock. He lathered his fingers with lube and returned his hands to John’s cock and arse and slid one lubed finger past John’s tight ring of muscle, eliciting a long and loud moan of pleasure from his doctor.  
As John rolled his hips back and forth, Sherlock pushed a second finger into John’s tight heat, struggling to keep both hands on John and not move one to his own burning cock.  
“Oh, go. Oh, Sherlock, oh, god,” John moaned in pleasure as he clutched desperately to Sherlock’s hair, his head thrown back against the wall.  
Sherlock’s own dick was continuing to burn with a need for attention, but Sherlock ignored it and continued to loosen up John. He pushed in another finger and stroked the inside of John for a moment before curving his fingers and thrusting them to strike John’s prostate, his mouth still around the doctor’s cock.  
John jumped into Sherlock’s mouth, moans and gasps of pleasure pouring uncontrollably out of his mouth and causing Sherlock’s cock to throb with desire. Sherlock moaned onto John’s cock, swallowing copious amounts of precum, his eyes watering from the need to touch himself.  
Abruptly, he removed his mouth and stood, grabbing John’s thighs and lifting the other man up. John eagerly wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist, loving the friction of his cock on the detective’s stomach. With John’s back pressed against the door, Sherlock attacked the doctor’s neck with his mouth, his hands on John’s arse, John’s fingers in his hair.  
Using one hand to hold John up, Sherlock spread some excess lube over his rock-hard and burning cock. When he was as lubed up as he was going to get, Sherlock used one hand to spread John’s arse cheeks and positioned his cock with the other. As Sherlock lowered John onto his cock, John shuddered and dug his nails into the detective’s shoulders.  
“Oh, god, John,” Sherlock moaned, his eyes closed, forehead pressed against John’s. “John. So… So good.”  
“Please,” John moaned back, clinging to the other man. “Please, Sherlock.”  
“John, I—” Sherlock cut himself off, returning his mouth to the doctor’s and hungrily kissing him, running his tongue over John’s lower lip.  
John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth and gripped the detective’s hair and shoulders as he moved his body up and down. He was slow at first, but then he began moving faster, Sherlock moving his hips to match John’s movements as John rode him like a really sexy pony.   
As they moved together, John felt his blood gush through his body in a burning wave of ecstasy, all the blood shooting south and causing a familiar pressure to begin building in the pit of his stomach. His entire body glowed with a heavenly peace that he only ever felt when he was with Sherlock. No matter what was happening, Sherlock always made him feel like everything would be all right.   
All coherent thought was wiped from his mind as Sherlock struck his prostate particularly hard.  
“Oh, god, oh, Sherlock,” John moaned, moving up and down to make Sherlock his that spot over and over again. “Oh, god. So good.”  
He kept bouncing on Sherlock’s cock while the glorious and torturous pressure built in his head and dick, his eyes watering from the pressure.  
“Oh, god, Sherlock. So close.”  
John didn’t know if the detective even knew what he meant, but apparently he got the gist, for at John’s words, Sherlock started to move faster, lifting John up and dropping him back down again. Since his hands were occupied, John began rapidly stroking himself, desperate to pop the balloon of pressure that was steadily being inflated.   
As he stroked himself and Sherlock pounded into him, the glorious pressure built and built until his mind exploded in white, strings of cum squirting over both of their stomachs.  
Hearing John cry out, seeing John’s expression, feeling John’s muscles on his cock and the doctor’s cum on his stomach, Sherlock’s entire body tightened and his dick practically exploded into his doctor, vaguely registering the fact that he was crying out John’s name.  
As they both came down from their endorphin high, Sherlock pulled out of John and set him down and John could feel Sherlock’s seed trickling out of him.  
“We need showers,” he breathed as they both sank to the floor.  
Sherlock turned his head and smiled lewdly at the doctor, a mischievous glint in his eyes.  
Wanting to have his turn at control, John pounced on Sherlock and put him on his back.  
“What happened to showering?” Sherlock asked with a smile and John straddled his waist.  
“Later,” the doctor replied as he leaned down to devour the detective’s mouth, the dick-on-dick friction already getting him hard again.  
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s torso as the doctor moved his mouth to the detective’s neck and bent his legs up, feet on the floor. John pulled away for a moment to find the discarded bottle of lube, squirted some into his hands, and coated the fingers of one hand and his dick. He resumed his position on the detective’s waist and began biting Sherlock’s neck as he slowly pushed one finger into his tight hole. Sherlock moaned and gripped John tighter, moving his hips back against John’s finger, his newly-formed erection standing at attention.  
John added a second finger, then a third, and immediately struck Sherlock’s prostate, causing the other man to jump, his deep moan of pleasure going straight to John’s balls. He hit that spot again and again, thoroughly reducing the composed detective to a sweaty, writhing, moaning mess of hormones.  
“Are you ready, Sherlock?” John purred, running a finger of his free hand over the head of Sherlock’s weeping cock.  
“Please, John,” Sherlock said shakily, his eyes closed, hands on the back of the detective’s head.  
John positioned his cock and slowly pushed himself into his detective, careful to watch Sherlock’s expression for any sign of serious pain even though they had done this before. When he was all the way in, he began slowly moving in and out.  
“Faster,” Sherlock ordered with a note of irritation in his voice, his legs wrapped around John’s waist.  
John easily complied, moving faster and faster until he was pounding into the detective, one forearm on the floor, the other hand pumping Sherlock’s cock. Their moans and gasps and the sound of John’s balls against Sherlock’s arse filled the flat, neither of them caring of anyone else heard them. Nothing else mattered except for them.  
All the blood in John’s body again made a mad dash to his dick, his balls and cock tingling with pressure. He quickened his pumping of Sherlock’s cock, not wanting to be the first to cum again, and struggled not to fall off the edge as Sherlock’s voice made John’s body vibrate. He could tell that Sherlock was close, so he pounded against the detective’s prostate and timed the pumps of his cock with the pounds.  
John’s restraint and work was rewarded when Sherlock’s body stiffened and his dick squirted thick strings of sticky white cum. Satisfied with his accomplishment, John jumped off the edge and released his load into Sherlock. He collapsed on the detective, too tired to pull out, and panted against Sherlock’s smooth chest.   
They lay together for an eternity floating on clouds of post-coital bliss, doing nothing but breathing and holding each other. For John, this was Heaven; lying with Sherlock after coming together in the most intimate way possible. John realised how lucky he was, because he had something no one else had. He had Sherlock’s virginity, he had Sherlock’s love, and he had the immense pleasure of getting to make love to Sherlock Holmes.  
“John?” Sherlock asked after some time, his voice overall normal.  
“Hmm?” John said blissfully, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep inside of Sherlock.  
“Shouldn’t we go shower now?” Sherlock asked, amusement at John’s reaction in his tone.  
“No,” John said simply, nuzzling the detective’s chest. “Let’s just sleep.”  
“Come on,” Sherlock said, smiling and standing up, holding his hand out to John. “We can sleep later.”  
John reluctantly took the proffered hand and they went to shower together (just shower) before going to collapse in Sherlock’s bed, curling up in each other’s arms. 

Okay, I know that was kinda short, but, I mean, it was just sex and you can only have sex so many times in one night. Especially since John isn’t eighteen anymore. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that mush. I do believe Moriarty will be making an appearance in the next chapter. Or the chapter after that. I know, I’m unorganised. Anywhoodle, reviews make me happy dance like a stripper. (And if that’s not enough to give you nightmares, I don’t know what is.) *Huggles*


	14. Chapter 14

Hello and welcome to the fourteenth chapter of The Education of Sherlock Holmes. Welcome also to all my new followers. I do hope that you continue to stay with me for the duration of our journey together. Words cannot describe my love for the amazing willow trees of awesome that are FrankandJoe3, All my fandom tears, and Sagaria. I do believe I love you with every fibre of my being.   
This chapter will include: Johnlock, Simon Holmes, and drugs (whoo). 

Chapter Fourteen: Calm before the Storm

Sherlock awoke to the sounds of John working in the kitchen. Smiling to himself, the detective got out of bed and walked naked to the kitchen doorway, standing for a moment watching as John cooked breakfast. After peacefully watching the dressed doctor for a bit, Sherlock walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around John’s waist.   
“Why are you leaving?” Sherlock asked quietly into John’s ear, his voice sending shivers through the other man’s body.  
“Because I have to go to surgery,” John breathed as Sherlock kissed, licked, and nibbled his neck.  
“But I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock purred, his body pressed against John’s, his chin on John’s shoulder as he continued working on the doctor’s neck.  
John’s eyes fluttered shut and his head moved back and to the side, his hands gripping the counter. He could feel Sherlock’s naked erection against his arse and felt the familiar tingling pressure of his own erection beginning to strain against his pants and trousers.  
“Sherlock, no,” John struggled to say, fighting to resist the fiery passionate desire creeping up his body. “I need to go.”  
“Not right now,” Sherlock said hypnotically, lowering one hand in between John’s legs.  
“Sherlock,” John breathed, trying to remember why he needed to protest as the detective began massaging his very prominent hard-on, his own eagerly pressing against the doctor.   
“John,” Sherlock murmured, the deep vibrations of his voice going straight to John’s balls.  
“I need to…” What was it he needed to do? Go somewhere. But where?   
“You can’t go anywhere with this,” Sherlock said, palming John’s erection and nibbling his neck.  
Made sense to John. But wait, no, he thought as he started to turn to his detective. He needed to go somewhere. Somewhere important. Somewhere… Somewhere… Surgery!  
“Sherlock, I have to go,” John said firmly, gently tugging the detective’s arms away from his waist.  
“But what about this?” Sherlock asked a bit more seriously, rolling his hand against John’s crotch.  
“I’ll take care of it myself,” John replied, knowing there was no way his erection would fade on its own.  
Sherlock whined sexily into John’s ear and pressed his hand more forcefully against John’s clothed dick.  
“Sherlock,” John said again, his voice the warning tone that one would use on a dog or a small child. “If I let you get me off, then we’ll end up having sex for hours and I really do need to go.”  
Sherlock sighed into his ear and he thought that the detective was just going to go at him anyway when the other man said, “Fine” and reluctantly released him.  
John breathed shakily and looked down at the now-charred eggs. He threw the eggs into the garbage disposal and quickly whipped up another batch, tea, and two slices of toast. By the time he had fixed up two plates, Sherlock had cleared off the kitchen table and wrapped himself in his bed sheet.   
They comfortably ate breakfast together and John somehow miraculously managed to coax his dick into complacency and it no longer demanded attention. When he was done, he put his dishes in the sink, gave Sherlock a kiss on his forehead, and scurried out the door.  
Sherlock sighed, put his own dishes in the sink, and went to flop down on the couch, already bored. There weren’t any new cases and no one had emailed him and John about anything important. The most interesting thing was a teenager asking about his missing dog that was obviously run over by his father.  
He had finished all his experiments and John had taken his gun so that Sherlock wouldn’t shoot anything. He stared at the ceiling and considered going through John’s mail, but there was never anything interesting aside from an occasional letter or email from a parent or his sister. He thought about going through John’s room and clothing to see what he could find out, but John always got upset whenever he did that. He could find out what Lestrade was doing and send mass texts to mess with him, but that was too easy. And he didn’t have the pleasure of actually being there. He could hack into the Scotland Yard’s database, but, again, that was too easy.  
Sherlock groaned in frustration and walked to the window, looking out at the world. He could always get himself hard again, but he was above such aboriginal activities. He watched the people milling around, quickly scanning one person and moving on to the next, looking for anyone remotely interesting. At one point, he thought he’d found a young woman who was planning to kill her fiancés dog, but on closer inspection, he realised that she was merely fantasising about it.  
He considered calling Simon and smiled at the thought, but no, it was Thursday and the boy would be in school. Of course, he could just call him anyway and Simon would be thrilled to receive a call from his uncle, but then Mycroft would be upset with him. Not that he cared—his brother lived in a near-constant state of annoyance at him that he usually caused—but life was easier when Mycroft wasn’t actively annoyed.  
But, then again, he could just make Mycroft do what he wanted if he ever wanted anything from the man. After all, Sherlock didn’t care what people thought of him and Mycroft had a lot more to lose than he did. And it was fun to annoy Mycroft in front of his important associates and show them who was really in charge.  
He told all this to John, who was probably reading the newspaper, used to Sherlock thinking out loud.  
“What do you think, John? Should I call Simon or should I just do something else to annoy Mycroft?” he asked, still looking out the window.  
“Simon’s in school, Sherlock,” John said reasonably.  
“Yes, but he’s a genius and doesn’t need to pay attention in school.”  
“Is it even worth asking you to try to avoid annoying Mycroft?”  
“Probably not,” Sherlock said, smiling mischievously.  
They were silent for a moment while Sherlock thought and John presumably read the paper.  
“John. Phone,” he said, still smiling to himself and observing the outside world.  
“John,” he said again after his doctor didn’t immediately respond. “Phone.”  
He turned and looked around the flat for his doctor.  
“John?” He waited a moment more before retrieving his phone from the table beside his chair.  
Where are you?—SH  
John’s reply came a few minutes later.   
Surgery. I told you—JW  
I was just talking to you.—SH  
Wasn’t there for that.—JW  
How long have you been gone?—SH  
20 minutes. I told you repeatedly where I was going.—JW  
Hm. Must’ve deleted it.—SH  
I’ve gotta go.—JW  
Bored.—SH  
Play your violin.—JW

Sherlock checked the time (8:20) and stared out the window for a while longer, holding his sheet and phone while observing all the people going about their silly little lives. It was almost pathetic how easy it was to discern all of their so-called secrets. One woman’s appearance practically screamed dissatisfaction with her job. He wondered how anyone failed to notice things that were so blatantly obvious.   
His thoughts again strayed to Simon and how much he wanted the boy to be like him—in intelligence at least. Of course, he didn’t want Simon to get involved with drugs, but he wasn’t going to be as controlling as Mycroft. He would simply observe and give the boy a helpful nudge if he needed it.   
Sherlock held his sheet closed with one hand and kept watching out the window as he called Simon’s number.  
“Hello?” Simon said almost immediately.  
“Simon, no phones during class,” Sherlock heard the teacher say in the background.  
“But, Miss, it’s my uncle. He’s got cancer and we don’t know how much longer he’s going to last. Please, Miss, can I please talk to him? I… I love him so much.”  
Sherlock smirked to himself at how convincing Simon sounded. He could hear the fake tears in the boy’s voice and knew his teacher would crumble under his innocent, wide-eyed gaze.  
“Well… Okay, then,” the teacher said reluctantly.  
“Thank you, Miss,” Simon said emphatically with exaggerated gratitude and false sniffles.  
There was some shuffling, some walking, a door opening, and finally the click of a bathroom door.  
“That was way too easy,” Simon said, pride and happiness replacing any false sadness. His voice also contained the eager pleasure of doing something against the rules. “I mean, she practically gave me that excuse since her tone and demeanour obviously said that she’d lost someone recently.”  
“People are so obvious that way,” Sherlock agreed, smiling and almost laughing in his pride for the boy. “But what if she calls home and asks about your ‘uncle’?”  
“I recently changed the contact information on my official forms so that the contact number is mine rather than Father’s. That way, whenever the school calls, I let it go to voicemail and if it’s important, I let Father know about it,” Simon replied, struggling to keep his voice cool and normal and keep out his well-hidden desire for approval from his idol.  
“Very good,” Sherlock praised, feeling the boy’s incredible happiness through the phone. “But what if Mycroft finds out?”  
“If he finds out, then I don’t care,” Simon said, his own joy and pride flowing into Sherlock and the detective resisted the urge to say, “That’s my boy”.  
“So, what’s up?” Simon asked eagerly. “Is there a new case?”  
“Regrettably, no,” Sherlock said casually, following random people with his eyes. “There are no new cases and John left for surgery apparently… an hour ago.” Sherlock paused to check the clock.  
“Was the double homicide drug thing your last case?” Simon asked with burning curiosity. “That one where you were on a combination of ecstasy, LSD, and cocaine?”  
“Yeah, that was the last case we had.”  
“How did you survive that, by the way? To take that kind of combination and survive is medically impossible.”  
“I can’t really be killed that easily.”  
“But how did the victims survive that?”  
“How do you know that wasn’t the cause of death?” Sherlock asked, wanting to test the boy.  
“Oh, please. If that was the cause of death, you wouldn’t have taken those drugs. You knew they were alive and you wanted to see what their mental and physical capacities would be in such a state. And I would’ve known that even if it wasn’t on John’s blog. So how did they survive that?”  
“You don’t know?” Sherlock inquired, smiling again.  
He could practically hear Simon running a hand through his hair in frustration. He sighed and thought for a moment before saying, “The drugs were either diluted to reduce the potency or they were combined with another drug that would be masked by the other drugs—No. The drugs were either diluted or a different drug was put into their systems that would keep them alive after being injected by the cocktail. But you’re good enough that you would’ve caught another drug, so the drugs were diluted to reduce the potency.” He spoke almost faster than Sherlock and spoke with the same confidence that Sherlock used to irritate most everyone he interacted with.  
“That was brilliant,” he said honestly, not failing to recognise the fact that the person he praised the most was one who amounted to a younger version of himself.  
“Thank you,” Simon said as if accepting a compliment that he always knew to be true, though Sherlock knew that he was smiling widely.  
“We should play chess sometime,” Sherlock remarked.  
“We should,” Simon agreed easily. “Did you and Father ever play chess?”  
“Nine times out of ten, I won,” the detective said, only showing off a bit. “Which is why he stopped playing against me.”   
“I bet I could win against you,” Simon said with Sherlock’s cockiness and confidence.  
“Confidence can be your downfall.”  
“It’s never been yours.”  
“I’m as good as I think I am.”  
“As am I.”  
Sherlock smiled wider as his phone beeped.  
“I believe John just texted me,” he said to his nephew.  
“I suppose that this means I have to return to the den of idiocy and unsupported arrogance that is school.”  
“We shall meet again soon.”  
“I look forward to it.”  
With that, Simon hung up and Sherlock looked at his mobile and smiled fondly before going to check his messages.

Can you pick up some bread and milk?—JW  
Why don’t you do it?—SH  
I’m busy.—JW  
So am I.—SH  
You’re at home. –JW  
Busy.—SH  
Please, Sherlock?—JW  
Fine. Anything else?—SH  
Some tea would be nice.—JW  
Okay.—SH  
Thank you.  --JW  
Don’t do that. You know I hate emoticons.—SH  
:P—JW  
Stop it.—SH  
Y?—JW  
John, do not type like that.—SH  
Y not? Its txt speak. Im txtng.—JW  
Stop it.—SH  
Or wat? :P—JW  
Or I will come down there and irritate everyone so much that they will fire you.—SH  
… Spoil sport.—JW  
Stop being childish.—SH  
Go get the groceries.—JW  
<3—JW  
What is that even supposed to be?—SH  
A heart. It means I love you.—JW  
Don’t do that.—SH  
Love you?—JW  
Use emoticons.—SH  
I love you too.—SH

Sherlock put his phone down and went to get dressed. He put on black pants, black trousers, a black belt, and a dark purple button-up. He went back into the living room and put his mobile in his pocket before pulling on black socks, his shoes, and his coat and scarf. He left the flat and checked in with Mrs Hudson before exiting 221B  
He put his hands in his pockets and walked with his head held high and his shoulders back, the picture of confidence with a touch of arrogance, looking through everyone who passed him. Some of them eyed him warily, some with admiration, but he paid no attention to any of them.  
“Help,” he heard a small voice said from the alleyway to his left. He stopped and looked curiously and cautiously into the alley.  
“Help. Please.” The voice was a child, male, eight years old.  
His voice was full of genuine terror and Sherlock looked around for a moment before guardedly entering the alley, his senses alert for anything indicative of a trap. He walked in the direction of the voice and stopped, listening and waiting.  
“Please help me.”  
Sherlock knelt on the ground in front of the Dumpster to his right.  
“Hello?” he asked quietly, curiously, looking around the Dumpster.  
“Help me,” the boy said with a fearful urgency.  
Through the thin shadows created by clouds, Sherlock looked underneath the Dumpster and saw the little boy crouched in a recess dug into the ground, his body forced into a tiny ball.  
“Please help me,” he said again, his voice shaky, bright green eyes terrified.   
“Okay. Hold on.” Sherlock examined the wheels of the Dumpster, went to the side, and began pushing at the Dumpster. After about five minutes, Sherlock finally found a good angle and got the Dumpster to move. He shoved and pushed for a while longer before he had created a sizable space for the boy to get out.  
He crouched beside the boy and held out his hand.  
“It’s okay. Come on,” he said, trying to be comforting.  
The boy shrank away from him and gave a squeak of terror. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion and he felt a needle stab into the side of his neck. He fell to the ground and tried to throw his arm out, but it felt as if he were underwater, his limbs moving slowly, his body unable to draw oxygen. His vision blurred and he saw the vague outline of a man crouching in front of him.  
“Time to sleep, Mr Holmes,” the man said before Sherlock’s vision went blank and he fell into unconsciousness.

I realise that this was pretty much just a filler chapter, but hey, at least we’re finally getting to the long-term conflict and whatnot. And, yes, I know I promised that I wouldn’t hurt Sherlock anymore, but I also wanted an actual main plot thing and this is kind of what happened. I hope you all enjoy and be prepared for darkness. Your reviews are the reason why I write for hours on end and stay up till one a.m. when I could be sleeping. Oh, and something that I’ve failed to mention up until now: I am my own beta, so if there are any mistakes, it’s only because I’m tired. *Huggles*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quick note: The reason why John responded to Sherlock after he'd left was because that was what was going on in Sherlock's mind. You know, Sherlock talking to John when John's not there


	15. Chapter 15

Good evening, my children. *Said in a Dracula voice.* I hope you all enjoyed that little cliff-hanger. And sorry, but there is going to be some Sheriarty in the next chapter. And I really do think that this is the last time that Sherlock will be hurt in this story.  
FrankandJoe3, All my fandom tears, Sagaria, MAFITA, I want to give you all a naked Benedict Cumberbatch. And lots of love to all my other followers. You all have partially made my dreams of becoming a famous writer come true. If only it was this easy to get a real book published.  
Warnings: Violence, depression, drug use. (I’m sorry)

Chapter Fifteen: Bring Me to Life

John got home at five twenty and calmly went up into the flat where Mrs Hudson was cleaning out the fridge.   
“What happened to you not being our housekeeper?” John asked playfully as he walked into the kitchen to make tea, figuring that Sherlock was in his room.  
“Well, I can’t in good conscience let you boys live with expired food in the fridge,” Mrs Hudson as she dropped things into a trash bin.  
“There’s no milk in there,” John said in confusion, looking over his landlady’s shoulder.  
“There was, but the date was for a week ago,” Mrs Hudson responded, closing the fridge and tying the garbage bag. “Now, I’ll empty out your refrigerator, but you have to be the one to take out the bag.”  
“Understood. Um, where’s Sherlock?” John asked with a note of concern.  
“Oh, he went out this morning. Is there something the matter?” Mrs Hudson asked, worry creeping into her face and voice.  
“I don’t know. He was going to go to the grocery. Do you know what time he left?”  
“Around half of nine,” Mrs Hudson answered immediately.  
“And he hasn’t come back since?”  
“Well, he could’ve come and gone while I was doing my own shopping. He could be with Mycroft.”  
“Maybe,” John agreed distractedly. “I’m sure he’s fine. And even if he’s in trouble, he’ll get out. Don’t worry about him.”  
“Let me know where he is when you find him,” Mrs Hudson said as she started out of the flat. “He owes me rent.”  
“Will do.”  
“And empty out that bin,” she said from the door.  
“Could you—?” John started.  
“Not your housekeeper,” Mrs Hudson said before leaving the flat and shutting the door behind her.   
John pulled out his phone and called Mycroft, beginning to pace nervously across the living room.  
“Hello, John,” Mycroft answered with a kind of automatically false civility. “What can I do for you?”  
“Do you know where Sherlock is?”  
Mycroft was silent for a moment and John could feel the drastic change in the other man’s demeanour from calm to worry.  
“Have you tried texting him?” he asked in a smooth voice that barely concealed the torrent of fear and apprehension that was threatening to bubble up.  
John mentally cursed himself for not taking the most obvious course of action.  
“No. I don’t know, I just thought of calling you first.”  
“When did he go missing?” Mycroft asked in a tight, controlled voice, terrified by the prospect of his brother missing.  
“I don’t know. I mean, he went out to the grocery at half of nine, so he could’ve gone somewhere around then,” John’s voice was significantly less controlled than Mycroft’s, the concern pouring out, his stomach and throat constricting with fear.  
“I’ll check the CCTV,” Mycroft said calmly.  
“Don’t you have people watching CCTV?”  
“If Moriarty is behind this, then he’s successfully controlling one or more of my people.” John could hear the click of a computer in the background.  
“Do you think he’s okay, Mycroft?” John hated the pathetic vulnerability in his voice, but at the same time he couldn’t care less what his voice sounded like.  
“It’s Sherlock, John,” Mycroft said, comforting with an automatic note of condescension. “He’s either perfectly fine or dead.”  
“Oh, well that’s really comforting,” John said, soaking each word in thick sarcasm.  
“The CCTV’s been tampered with,” Mycroft reported, ignoring John’s comment. “It’s well-hidden, but still there.”  
“So… what? Do you know where he disappeared?” John asked with a slightly obvious impatience.  
“An alleyway halfway down Sagaria Street,” Mycroft said. “I can’t tell exactly what happened.”  
“Do you want me to call Lestrade, or should your people handle it?” John asked, for once needing to be told what to do.  
“Call Greg; my people are less trustworthy,” Mycroft said decisively. “Besides, despite what Sherlock may think, the Scotland Yard is not completely incompetent.”  
“Okay.”  
“And John?”  
“Yeah?”  
“He’ll be fine.”  
John could tell from Mycroft’s uncertainty that the other man was trying to convince himself as much as John. Because no matter what the Holmes brothers said or did to each other, they really did care about one another and wanted—needed—to protect each other from any serious harm that they didn’t cause.  
“I know he will,” John said confidently to the other man, his own brain and stomach screaming and writhing with nerves.

 

Flashback Time

Sherlock and Mycroft got out of the car and walked to the shop on either side of their sitter.  
“Okay,” she said rather nervously, looking at the piece of paper in her hands. “Your mum gave me a list of everything we need, so this shouldn’t take too long.”  
“I could help you out, if you want,” the twelve-year-old Mycroft said smoothly, dressed in a dark blue jumper, matching trousers, a white button-up, a red-and-blue stripped tie, and spotless black shoes, his arms folded behind his back.  
“That would be lovely,” the young sitter, Susan, said in relief, never having been in the shop where the Holmes family acquired their groceries.  
The six-year-old Sherlock shuffled grumpily along beside them, kicking at rocks and pieces of trash.  
“Oh, Sherlock, do try to be more civil,” Mycroft said, head held high as he looked down on his younger brother.  
“Oh, Mycroft, do try to not model yourself after Father, thereby revealing how you really have no identity of your own,” Sherlock rebuked, already lean and sharp and cocky.  
Mycroft merely straightened his shoulders as they entered the shop and began helping Susan to find all the items on their list.  
“Bored,” Sherlock declared not ten minutes later in the produce section.  
“Calculate prices,” Mycroft said apathetically, selecting items on the list and placing them into the trolley.  
“I already did that,” Sherlock said, watching the other people in the store. “I already added up the total cost of the list, multiplied the prices, divided the prices, calculated how much of each item should be in the shop, and calculated how many floor tiles should be in the shop.”  
“You did all that in under ten minutes?” Susan marvelled with open-jawed astonishment.  
“I’m brilliant,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “And bored,” he added irritably, glaring at Mycroft.  
“Well, find a way to entertain yourself,” Mycroft said, not looking at his brother.  
“Maybe you could find the last few items on the list,” Susan suggested, showing Sherlock the list.  
“No,” Sherlock said, offended, after a moment of looking at the woman in astounded disgust.  
“The sooner we get this stuff, the sooner we can get home,” Mycroft said reasonably.  
The youngest Holmes sighed in exasperation and stalked off to fetch the items, longing to get back home to his microscope and his solitude.

 

Mycroft was giving his girlfriend, Clara, a tour of the house and was showing her around the ground floor when they ran into Sherlock in the dining room, the table cluttered with his microscope, samples, and papers.  
“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” Mycroft asked authoritatively, one arm around Clara’s waist. “I thought Father sent you to camp.”  
“Oh, please,” Sherlock said derisively, not looking up from his microscope, his fingers gently fiddling with the dials. “As if I would ever expose myself to that much primal, testosterone-driven idiocy. I get enough of that at school, so why would I spend summer holiday just barely tolerating the kind of ignorance I make it a point to seclude myself from?”  
“Clara, this is my little brother, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice tense as he gestured to the boy at the table. “Sherlock, this is my girlfriend, Clara.”  
“Hi,” Clara said slightly nervously, waving slightly.  
Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the medium-height preppy girl with long brown hair and black eyes and gave her a quick once-over before returning to his microscope, his head never once moving.  
“She’s only dating you because she knows you’re smart and wants you to tutor her because her grades fell drastically last year and have yet to recover due to the fact that she was impregnated last year. Her parents would’ve let her get an abortion, but she was too scared and stupid to tell them, so she hid the pregnancy as best as she could until she was, oh, four months pregnant, at which point she broke down and confessed to her parents and they bought her everything she needed. So, instead of spending two hours and two hundred pounds to get an abortion, her own stupidity and cowardice caused her nine months of pain and humiliation and she still hasn’t gotten her life turned back around.”  
“Who told you that?” Clara asked, horrified, after a moment of stunned silence.  
“No one told me anything,” Sherlock said simply, his eyes on his experiment as he switched slides. “I simply read all of that off of you.”  
“You told him?” she demanded of Mycroft, knowing that he knew of her pregnancy.  
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Mycroft assured, alarmed, while Sherlock said, “I read it off you.”  
“Sherlock has a way of reading people and knowing them,” Mycroft explained, trying to comfort his girlfriend.  
“It’s horrible,” Clara said, offended, her arms folded across her chest.  
“Sherlock, apologise to her,” Mycroft told his brother.  
“No,” Sherlock said calmly.  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly.  
“Oh, don’t think for a second that changing the tone of your voice will make me more compliant,” Sherlock said aggressively, looking up at his brother. “You have no control over me, you never have. I control you, Mycroft. And you know why? Because I know each and every one of your secrets and I will not hesitate to make those secrets known to everyone should you cross me. And you may also know all of my secrets, but you know what the difference between us is? I don’t care. I don’t care what people think of me. You do. You need people to think the best of you so that they’ll give you what you want and not blame you for anything. So if that’s still the future that you want, then I suggest you go away and do whatever it is eighteen-year-olds do.”  
With that, Sherlock turned back to his microscope while the older two gawked at him.   
“Come on, Clara,” Mycroft eventually said, gently pulling his girlfriend’s arm.  
“Mycroft, aren’t you going to do something about him?” Clara asked expectantly, gesturing to the younger boy.  
“He can’t unless he wants all of his most humiliating secrets spread throughout his web of contacts and associates,” Sherlock said before looking up and adding pleasantly, “Now, run along. Oh, and you know they make this new thing? It’s called birth control.”  
Clara gave a noise of disgust and stomped out of the room, Mycroft at her heels. Sherlock bent his head back to his microscope, a satisfied smirk on his face.

 

Mycroft was taking some time to himself before his twentieth birthday party and having a nice, relaxing walk. He was having a lovely time relaxing and lazily observing all the birds and squirrels when he heard angry yelling in the distance. He turned, looked around, and saw in the distance a group of people hunched over something.  
He cautiously walked over to the group and as he got closer, he could hear punches and insults being thrown. He was just ten feet from the group of six men when he finally recognised the voice of the man in the middle of the circle.  
“Elijah?” he said in slight alarm.  
One of the other guys at the edge of the circle turned around, the others still occupied with the victim of their aggression.   
“Mycroft,” Rory said in alarm, moving to block Mycroft’s view from the middle of the circle. “Umm… Guys?” he said fearfully, turning his head to the other guys. “Mycroft’s here.”  
The news spread through the circle and Thomas shook Elijah’s shoulder in fear.  
“Elijah,” he said, looking back at Mycroft with wide eyes.   
“What?” Elijah demanded, hunched over and not looking up from his victim.  
“Mycroft’s here,” Thomas said urgently.   
“Shit,” Elijah said in exasperation, dropping his victim with a thud and straightening up.  
The circle spread out and Mycroft saw his little brother bloodied and lying on the ground.  
“Sherlock,” he said in terrified panic, going to kneel beside his brother.  
Sherlock’s nose and chin were covered with blood from his shattered nose, his right cheekbone swollen and cut, and there was a deep cut above his left eyebrow. But despite his injuries, the boy’s eyes were brighter than ever, shining with hatred and determination and intelligence. He had to be in pain, but all Mycroft could see was fortitude, superiority, and an ability to take care of himself.   
“Oh, my god, Sherlock,” Mycroft said worriedly, trying to take his brother’s face in his hands.  
“Get off me,” Sherlock spat, scrambling to his feet.  
He spat blood onto the ground and looked through the six inches of height difference to glare violently at Elijah.  
“This doesn’t change the fact that I was right,” Sherlock said, his voice dripping hatred. “The reason your parents got divorced was because your mum couldn’t stand you.”  
Elijah lunged for Sherlock, but was held back by Rory and Russell.  
“Elijah, please, he’s just a kid,” Mycroft pleaded, trying and failing to push Sherlock behind him.  
“If that brat can talk like us, then he can get beat up like us,” Elijah growled, violently glaring at Sherlock.  
“Please, just let it go. You’ve already hurt him enough,” Mycroft begged, holding out his hands in supplication. “His nose is broken and I’m pretty sure his cheekbone is broken. You’ve made your point, you can let it go now. Okay?”  
Elijah scowled at Sherlock for a while longer before he jerked out of Rory and Russell’s grip and stood, turning his eyes to Mycroft.  
“You keep that kid away from me, Mycroft,” he snarled, stabbing a finger towards Sherlock before turning and stalking off, the others following him.  
“What the hell was that?” Mycroft demanded angrily after a moment, spinning around to confront his brother.  
“Hey, all I did was mention the fact that his parents got a divorce and that it was because of him,” Sherlock said calmly, crossing his arms over his scrawny chest. “He was the one who overreacted.”  
“Could you at least try to behave like a normal person?” Mycroft demanded in anger.  
“No,” Sherlock said easily. “That’s boring.”  
“You know, one of these days, you’re gonna get yourself killed.” The anger was draining from his voice and being replaced with concern.  
“As if.” Sherlock started to walk away and Mycroft followed behind him, sighing in exasperation.

 

Mycroft entered the headmaster’s office and saw his seventeen-year-old brother in the chair in front of the headmaster’s desk, a look of amusement on his face.  
“Again?” Mycroft exclaimed in disbelief. “Sherlock, this is the third time this month.”  
Sherlock just shrugged, fiddling with a loose thread on the arm of the chair.  
“What did he do this time?” he asked the headmaster, sighing and running a hand through his hair.  
“Told off a teacher. Again,” Headmaster Piper said, the last word soaked in exhaustion.  
“I can’t help it if most of your teachers are idiots,” Sherlock said easily, an amused smile on his face.  
“Do you think suspension is a laughing matter, Mr Holmes?” Headmaster Piper questioned of the younger Holmes.  
“Suspension?” Mycroft repeated in shock.  
“This is the third offense your brother has this month,” Headmaster Piper explained to Mycroft, a note of regret in his voice when he turned to the elder Holmes. “This is the third time he has drastically upset a teacher. I have no choice but to suspend him for three days. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”  
Knowing that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything helpful, Mycroft put a hand on his brother’s mouth and the other on the back of his head.  
“He doesn’t have anything to say,” Mycroft said hurriedly, pulling Sherlock up by his head. “His punishment is fair and I’m truly sorry for his behaviour.”  
The two brothers left the room and Mycroft didn’t release Sherlock until they were out of the building.  
“Are you ever going to grow up?” Mycroft demanded irritably as they walked to his car.  
“Are you ever going to become fun?” Sherlock replied rhetorically, getting into the car.  
“This isn’t funny, Sherlock,” Mycroft said tiredly as he started the car and began driving.  
“I think it is,” Sherlock said apathetically, propping an elbow up on the windowsill.  
“Believe it or not, the world doesn’t run on what you think.”  
“My life does.”  
“No, Sherlock. No, it doesn’t.” Mycroft sighed tiredly and again ran a hand through his hair. “I had to leave university to come get you.”  
“Didn’t ask you to,” Sherlock replied blankly, looking straight ahead.  
“No, the headmaster did… Have you even thought about what you’ll do after school?”  
“No.”   
“Have you decided on what you want your job to be?”  
“No.”  
“Then how do you plan on making money and supporting yourself?” Mycroft demanded in frustration.  
“Blackmail and extortion,” Sherlock said easily.  
“Both of which are illegal,” Mycroft reminded his little brother.  
“Don’t care.”  
Mycroft sighed for a third time and shook his head, wondering not for the first time what he was going to do about his socially inept, aggravating younger brother.

 

Sherlock heard the door to the roof open and took another deep drag of his cigarette as Mycroft approached him.  
“You know those will kill you,” Mycroft said casually, leaning against the waist-high wall in front of his brother and looking out through the night.  
At twenty eight, Mycroft Holmes was already controlling one fourth of the British government and was getting richer by the day. He was engaged to Jennifer and had numerous contacts in numerous countries. His hair was also beginning to thin from the constant stress given to him by his little brother.   
“I always wanted to die young,” Sherlock remarked, sitting sideways on the wall with his back against the wall of the Flywey Bank, his knees loosely bent.   
“I’ve found a job for you,” Mycroft said, turning his head to his brother.  
“Don’t care,” Sherlock said, not looking at Mycroft, his right elbow on his knee, left arm in his lap.  
He took a deep drag and blew a long stream of smoke into the chilly night air, his head lolling back against the building, eyes closed.   
“Helping the Scotland Yard with difficult cases,” Mycroft continued, a kind of sad desperation in his voice and his expression and his looked helplessly at his brother.  
“You think I would want that?” Sherlock asked tiredly, opening his eyes and looking depressively at his brother.  
“The pay is really good,” Mycroft said, the miserable, washed-out look in his little brother’s eyes sending a stab of pain through his heart and stomach. “You could get a better flat, buy whatever you want.”  
“I want cigarettes and cocaine,” Sherlock said, looking back out over the city, his words bringing tears to his brother’s eyes.  
“Sherlock,” he said, struggling to steady his voice and fight back tears. “Please let me help you. This isn’t how you want to live.”  
“Isn’t it?” Sherlock said, resignation in his voice as he flicked the spent cigarette off the building.  
“No, it’s not,” Mycroft said ardently, turning his body sideways. “Sherlock, I know you. I know how brilliant and aggravating you are and I know that you would never want to miss an opportunity to tell people how ignorant they are. And we can take it one step at a time. We can get you this job, see how you like it, and then work on the drugs. You want to prove that you’re better than everyone, don’t you? That you’re strong and brilliant? Well, the only way you can be strong is to let go of the drugs. It would be hard, but I would help you. You don’t have to live alone, Sherlock.”  
They were both silent for a while and Mycroft was just beginning to think that Sherlock was too far gone when he spoke up.  
“The Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said, a tiny note of strength and a bit of arrogance in his voice. “They are quite idiots, aren’t they?”  
Mycroft smiled widely, his heart filling with hope at the thought that maybe he could still rescue his little brother.

 

Sherlock stirred awake and struggled to clear the thick fog from his mind. He registered that he was standing and he was in a dark room and his hands were above his head. He tried to bring his hands down, but couldn’t and heard the rattle of something. Chains, he realised with dread.   
“Well, finally,” he heard a familiar, deadly voice say from somewhere in front of him.  
A switch was thrown and his eyes clenched at the sudden brightness. When he could finally open his eyes again, he looked up and saw in front of him Jim Moriarty sitting calmly in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a look of boredom on his face.  
“I was beginning to think you’d never wake up,” he said before adding in a sing-song voice. “I’ve been waiting for you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Okay, so I know that was super long, but I hope you enjoyed it. Like I said, I’m sorry for hurting Sherlock again and I think I should point out that with the last flashback, my heart hurt while I was writing that. And I have no idea what the British school system is like, so if I fucked that up, please forgive me. And if I got Mrs Hudson’s dialogue wrong, I am so sorry. I’m just not as used to her speech patterns as the others.   
Anyway, reviews are cuddled and given a puppy (and the bad ones are given a rabid puppy). Next chapter will have lots of violence and Sheriarty and I am so sorry in advance. So sorry. Don’t kill me.


	16. Opposites Attract

Hey, guys. So I’m thinking that after the whole Sherlock being kidnapped thing, the story will be over. (I know, it’s tragically devastating.) But I’m gonna try to finish this up before school starts so that you won’t have to deal with long breaks in between updates.  
Oh, and I do have another idea for a Sherlock fanfic that takes place in the third season and involves a wickedly bad-arse villain chick named Roxanne Eries. Interested? And should I mention that she’s a bipolar schizophrenic with suicidal tendencies?   
Anyway, thank you so very much to my glorious and epically awesome hedgehog/dragon/hobbit/otter hybrids Sagaria, FrankandJoe3 and MAFITA. And an enormous amount of thanks to my other gorgeous otter/hedgehog hybrids who follow me and favourite me and pay attention to me. My love for you guys is bigger than Sherlock’s erection. (And that’s saying something.)  
Anywhoodle, warnings *edges away slowly*: torture, drugs, rapish sort of thing (depending on how you look at it). I am so sorry. Don’t kill me!

Chapter 16: Opposites Attract

Mrs Noble had assigned a group project and Simon was already busy working on it even though she was still assigning partners. He didn’t care. If she was actually thick enough to assign someone to him, he would have the other person begging for a different partner in under five minutes.  
“Um, hey.”  
Simon looked up intending to make some sort of snarky comment, but his words froze in his throat at the sight of the other boy.  
The boy was a bit taller than him and had slightly shaggy red hair and moss-green eyes. Cinnamon freckles dotted his slightly pudgy face and Simon could tell from the darting eyes that suffered from low self-esteem due to the fact that all the men in his family were stronger and better-looking than him and the women were all smarter. The boy loved animals and wanted to devote his life to them. He enjoyed poetry and was very sensitive, which was another cause of discourse between him and his family. He had two dogs, two cats, a rabbit, a snake, and a collection of fish, all of which he loved more than his family since they didn’t judge him or try to change him. He didn’t have any close friends, was left-handed, and was willing to do anything to make and keep a friend.   
“I’m Devon,” he said awkwardly, holding tightly to the strap of his rucksack slung over his shoulder.  
“Simon,” Simon said, managing to keep his voice cool and apathetic as he turned back to his work.   
“So… we’re working together,” Devon said uncomfortably, obviously not knowing what to do.  
“Wrong,” Simon said, continuing to outline his research paper on the Ebola virus.  
“We’re not working together?” Devon asked uncertainly.  
“You have been assigned to me. Whether or not I accept you is yet to be determined. Though if I do accept you, we will not be working together. I’ll be giving you instructions and you’ll be trying not to screw them up too badly.”  
“Oh… Well, I’m okay with that,” Devon said with a bit more calm in his voice.  
“Phone,” Simon said, not looking up.  
“What?”  
“Phone. Get me my phone,” Simon clarified with a touch of impatience.  
“Where is it?” Devon asked, unfazed by the other boy’s tone.  
“Rucksack, front pocket.”  
Devon obediently got the phone from the bag in front of Simon and held it out to the other boy. Simon looked at Devon with surprise and curiosity, looking him over and assessing him more carefully.  
“What?” Devon asked self-consciously after a while of Simon just staring at him.  
“Sit.” Simon nodded to the seat in front of him.  
Devon sat, lowering his rucksack, and kept his eyes locked with Simon’s as the smaller boy fixed him with a look of penetrating intensity more suitable for someone three times his age.  
“Have you ever read John Watson’s blog?” Simon asked abruptly.  
“Umm, no. I mean, I’ve heard of it and know who he is, but my mum won’t let me read it,” Devon answered in confusion.  
“But you know the relationship between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes?” Simon asked, his fingers intertwined beneath his chin.  
“Pretty much.”  
“I’m adopting you,” Simon declared, lowering his hands.  
“Wait, what?” Devon asked, not following the Simon’s train of thought.  
“I aspire to be Sherlock Holmes and one of the things that I need to be Sherlock Holmes is a John Watson. So, I’m adopting you as my John Watson.”  
“You’re adopting me as your blogger and sidekick?” Devon asked, still a bit confused, but all traces of awkward and uncertainty vanished from his tone.  
“The blogger part is optional,” Simon replied, smiling happily and holding out a hand, a devious shine in his bright eyes. “So what do you say? Wanna be a team?”  
A matching smile slowly spread across Devon’s face and he confidently took the other boy’s hand. “Absolutely.”

 

“What happened to wanting to burn me?” Sherlock inquired smoothly, looking indifferently at the criminal in his dark blue business suit.  
“Plans change,” Moriarty said simply before getting up and striding over to the detective, stopping mere inches from his face. “And besides, I wanted a chance to play with you before I burn you.”  
His eyes slowly ran up and down Sherlock’s body, finally settling on the detective’s eyes with a predatory gaze. Sherlock forced himself not to tremble and squirm under Moriarty’s stare, holding up his head and looking down at the criminal with a challenging and defiant look in his eyes.  
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing this whole time? Playing with each other?” Sherlock questioned, his voice hard and emotionless.  
“Oh, no, no, no,” Moriarty said, slowly tilting his head from side to side, insanity and a need of some sort burning in the twin orbs of hopeless, suffocating black that were his eyes. “I’m not talking about playing against you. I’m talking about playing with you.”  
Sherlock’s brow furrowed just the tiniest bit, not understanding what the criminal was saying.  
“Let me put it to you this way,” Moriarty said patiently, lazily running his fingers up and down Sherlock’s side. “For this time that we have together here, you are not going to be my competitor, but my toy. Ohh, but you still don’t know what I mean, do you?” Moriarty asked with a fake little pout. “Poor thing. Well, you’ll figure it out soon enough.”  
Moriarty moved away and walked to the other side of the room, coming back with a wheeled, stainless steel medical cart loaded with various blades and syringes.  
Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sight of the tools and he struggled against his chains. He had been moving less than two seconds when Moriarty grabbed a wicked-looking six-inch blade and pressed it underneath the left side of Sherlock’s jawbone, forcing the detective’s head back and to the side.  
“Now, Sherlock, why would you struggle when you know you can’t break free?” the criminal sang with the innocence of a small child, the purity absurdly contrasting with the blade he was holding against the detective’s neck and the manic abnormality twisting his mind and warping the look in his eyes.  
“You know what I think?” Moriarty continued, the razor-sharp blade biting into Sherlock’s skin with the smallest amount of pressure. “I think you want me to hurt you. Because you like the danger, you need it. You love the thought of dancing with Death and coming out mostly intact. And the fact that you might not come out of it turns you on more than anything.”  
Sherlock just looked down at the other man, not saying anything and struggling not to get drawn into Moriarty’s hypnotic gaze.  
“If you’re so interested in dancing with Death, then maybe you should release me and we can dance all night,” Sherlock said, cool and confident.  
“Are you saying that you’re Death?” Moriarty asked curiously, slowly running the flat of the blade over Sherlock’s cheeks and jawbone and neck.  
“For you I could be,” the detective said deviously, not missing the slight dilation of Moriarty’s pupils.  
“Oh, Sherlock,” the criminal said approvingly, his voice going up and then down on the detective’s name, the point of the blade just below Sherlock’s left eye. “You do certainly know how to capture my interest. But I’m afraid this little meeting is just for you. Maybe next time.”  
The small dagger left Sherlock’s face and the criminal placed it back on the cart, contemplating the rest of his instruments with a casual indecisiveness.  
“What exactly makes someone attracted to the man who wishes to kill him?” Sherlock asked carelessly, paying no heed to the blood on his neck from the original contact of the blade on his skin.  
“Why don’t you ask yourself that and see what you come up with?” Moriarty said, nonplussed by Sherlock’s question.  
“I am not attracted to you,” Sherlock replied, his tone spiteful and deadly.  
“Oh, you most certainly are,” Moriarty corrected, turning back to the other man and stepping closer to him. “And if you’re not…” The criminal touched Sherlock’s cheek with the backs of his fingers and followed when the detective jerked his head away, “…then you will be.”  
Sherlock could feel Moriarty’s hot breath on his face and looked defiantly into the smaller man’s eyes. He leaned his head down so that his mouth was level with the criminal’s ear.  
“Never,” he whispered with cold venom. He pulled back and reconnected his gaze with Moriarty’s, knowing he himself would ultimately win in their game of power play.  
“Oh, Sherlock,” the criminal said in amusement. “How wrong you are. Now where was I?”  
“Do you know Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 7?” he asked the detective after a moment, still examining his tools.  
“Of course,” Sherlock said guardedly.  
“Do you know it on piano?” Moriarty asked as he selected and inspected a small but incredibly-sharp-looking knife.  
“Never had the inclination to,” Sherlock responded, cautiously watching the criminal’s movements and trying to anticipate the actions of a psychopath.  
“Really?” Moriarty asked with staged disbelief, turning back to the detective. “Well, I’ll just have to fix that.”  
He approached the strung-up detective and unbuttoned the man’s shirt before using the knife to carefully cut it off. He gently ran the flat of the blade over Sherlock’s torso before moving it to the junction of right arm and body and delicately carved a music note into the other man’s flesh.  
Sherlock hissed quietly in pain as the knife bit his skin and blood started welling up.

 

“Mycroft says he was right here when he disappeared,” John told Lestrade and his small team, standing in front of the alleyway and facing out. “And obviously he went or was taken somewhere, so do what you’re being paid to do and find out what happened here. Once we know that, we’ll be one step closer to finding him. Dismissed,” he added as a leftover habit from his army days.  
As they worked, John carefully walked around and tried to see what Sherlock saw.  
“Lestrade,” he called to the Detective Inspector standing at the edge of the alleyway.  
“Yeah?” Lestrade asked, coming up to the doctor.  
“Why was the Dumpster moved?” John asked curiously, visually examining the Dumpster and the partially concealed cavity in the concrete.  
“Don’t know,” Lestrade said honestly. “Maybe someone was trapped down there and Sherlock was trying to help them.”  
John knelt beside the cavity while Lestrade’s team examined the walls and ground. He struggled to see everything and after a while saw something out of the ordinary. He bent closer to the concrete and saw traces of blood and flesh.  
“Okay,” he said, standing up and dusting off his hands and trousers. “So Moriarty or one of his people takes a child and forces the child into the little hole before pushing the Dumpster over. Sherlock comes along, hears the child cry out or whimper and comes to investigate. He moves the Dumpster and is helping the child out or gets the child out when he gets struck from behind. So he was either dragged off or carried into a building.”  
“Wow, you’re even starting to talk like him,” Lestrade said in surprised fascination.  
John whistled to get everyone’s attention.  
“I need you all to scour every building around here. Leave nothing untouched. If I see or hear of any of you slacking, I guarantee suspension. Nothing but the absolute best is expected of you. And Anderson, there’s blood in that hole, be sure to get it all. And if I hear one unfair word against Sherlock, I will demonstrate just how much of a soldier I still am. Understood? I said, understood?” he said more harshly when everyone merely nodded.  
“Yes, sir,” they said, scattered and unassertive.  
They all got to work and John bit his lip nervously while watching Anderson, praying that Sherlock was okay.

 

Sherlock had managed to stay silent while Moriarty carved two rows of musical notes into his chest, though considering the fact that the symphony was twenty minutes long, Sherlock doubted that he would be able to stay silent for the entire process.  
“Oh, come now, Sherlock,” Moriarty said calmly, looking up from his work and smiling at the detective’s clenched jaw, tight fists, and closed eyes. “What’s the point in trying not to scream? One way or another I’m going to get you to scream. And you know why?”  
When Sherlock didn’t respond, Moriarty pushed the knife a little bit into his latest cut, causing the detective to gasp and hiss in pain.   
“I said, and you know why?” the criminal repeated, his voice deadly and commanding.  
“Why?” Sherlock asked grudgingly through clenched teeth.  
“Because I want to make you scream. And I always get what I want,” Moriarty said, all of the false kindness stripped from his voice and revealing the insane, destructive psychopath underneath.  
“Stab yourself and I’ll scream with joy,” Sherlock said dryly.  
“Oh, that’s clever,” Moriarty said appreciatively, stooping over a bit to be eye level with the Sherlock’s chest. “That’s really very clever.”  
Sherlock smirked while the criminal continued his work, pushing the knife just a bit deeper and almost bringing the detective to tears with the burning agony. He continued for what felt like an eternity, the pain never fading, only increasing, and Sherlock was on the verge of begging him to stop when Moriarty put the blade on the cart. The detective sighed in relief and the criminal smirked as he used a little towel to sop up the blood trickling from Sherlock’s stomach and chest.  
“I think it looks good,” he said satisfactorily, inspecting his work. “What do you think?”  
The detective trembled in agony, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, hands gripping his chains as he glared at the other man.  
“Nothing to say?” Moriarty asked, apathetic with a touch of menacing, unfazed by the look of pure burning hatred being sent his way. “Pity.”  
He contemplated his blades before picking up a large knife with a slightly curving, graceful blade and intricate swirls on the handle. He held the knife up and turned it slowly, watching it glitter in the light. He smiled in sadistic pleasure and began moving the blade in front of the detective’s face.  
“So, what should we do now? I feel like you need some sort of injury around here,” he moved the tip of the knife in a circle around Sherlock’s face, “but I don’t want to mess up your pretty face. Hmm. Decisions, decisions. Of course, I could cut you here.” He ran the flat of the blade from the detective’s hairline above his right eye down to his temple. “That wouldn’t do much to your face. But it might leave a scar. Oh well, I’ll be careful.”  
With that, Moriarty slowly moved the edge along the path he had decided upon. Sherlock clenched his jaw, hands, and the rest of his muscles to avoid clenching his eyes while a trail of stinging fire was bitten into his flesh.  
Moriarty removed the blade and without warning, thrust the blade in between two of Sherlock’s ribs and shoved it up to the hilt. Sherlock cried out in shocked agony and couldn’t help the tears of pain that began trickling out of his eyes.  
“There’s the scream I was looking for,” Moriarty exclaimed joyously, releasing the knife and leaving it buried in the detective’s side. “I knew you had it in you.”  
“Burn in hell,” Sherlock panted after a moment, taking all his pain and transforming it into black hatred.  
“Oh, honey, I’m gonna be the king of Hell,” the criminal said maniacally. “All the fun that I have here is nothing compared to what’s waiting for me.”  
“If you’re so eager to get to hell, let me go and I’ll send you there,” Sherlock said violently, his voice cold and deadly, teeth gritted against the pain in his side and on his torso and head.  
“Oh, I can’t go yet,” Moriarty said as if Sherlock had suggested leaving for holiday a day early. “There’s still so much to do. People to kill, money to make. And I still have to burn you. Really destroy you.” His voice and demeanour became deadly and dangerous and he looked at the detective for a while before switching back to casual and playful. “And that’s gonna take a while, so I might as well enjoy the ride while it lasts. Because when I go down, I’m gonna take you with me.”  
He went back up to the detective and roughly pulled the blade out of the other man’s side, eliciting a glorious cry of pain.  
“Oh, relax,” the criminal said derisively. “I didn’t hit any organs, so you’re not gonna die while I still have you.”  
Moriarty turned back to the metal cart, put the knife down, and picked up a syringe filled with some kind of clear liquid. Sherlock tried to move away, but Moriarty dug his fingers into Sherlock’s side and halted the detective’s protests. The criminal then moved his hands to Sherlock’s arm and stabbed the needle into a vein, pushing the plunger all the way down before removing the syringe.  
Every inch of Sherlock’s body, inside and out, erupted with blistering flames, his nerve endings reduced to ash, his heart beat immediately tripling. He gasped aloud and leaned as far forward as he could as the fire collected in the pit of his stomach and between his legs. His blood pounded through his veins, rushing through his ears while also shooting south to join the fire.  
He suddenly fell forward and instantly curled into a tight ball, one arm around his abdomen, his forehead on the cool concrete, his other arm scrabbling for purchase on something, anything. Through the blood and fire in his head, Sherlock heard a pathetic keening sound redolent of need and lust and realised vaguely that he was making the noise. He tried to keep his mouth closed, but the whines and moans tore their way out of his throat, forcing his mouth open to allow passage.  
“Well, well, well, look at this,” Moriarty’s smooth and mocking voice said from above Sherlock as he kneeled beside the detective. “The great Sherlock Holmes prone and pitiful beneath me. The world’s only consulting detective reduced to a writhing, pitiful mess. What would the others think?” He leaned closer to Sherlock’s ear and whispered, “What would John think?”  
Sherlock fought against the shudder his body gave at the feel of Moriarty’s breath and he flung an arm out at the criminal.  
“Ah, ah, ah,” Moriarty chided softly, grabbing the detective’s arm and smiling at the gasps of pleasure and surprise and need that the other man gave at the contact. “Be good and maybe I’ll only hurt you a little bit.”  
Sherlock remained in a ball, desperately struggling to ignore the intensely positive response his body gave to Moriarty’s touch. He tried to pull his arm away, but the criminal held tight, asserting control over the detective. He felt a smooth hand delicately caress his cheek before violently jerking his chin up, holding it in a vice-like grip.  
“You’ve been drugged with the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world, Sherlock,” Moriarty said hypnotically, his confident and powerful black eyes boring into Sherlock’s hazy and fearful eyes. “So you might as well relax and let Daddy take care of you.”  
Sherlock tried to pull away, but Moriarty forcefully pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, and all the detective could think of was how good the criminal felt and how the fires inside his body raged for more. He leaned up and deepened the kiss, their tongues briefly battling for dominance before Moriarty nipped Sherlock’s tongue and used the shock to shove his own tongue into the detective’s mouth. Sherlock’s arm was released and his hand immediately went to the back of the criminal’s neck, gripping his hair tightly. Moriarty’s hands were on the sides of Sherlock’s neck, not quite gripping it to the point of strangulation.  
Loving how Moriarty’s skin quelled the flames of need in his mind and body, Sherlock sat up, his legs beneath him, and wrapped his other arm around the criminal’s body. Moriarty moved his mouth to the detective’s neck, digging his nails into the other man’s shoulders, and sucked and licked and bit a deep bruise, marking the other man as his own. Sherlock moaned and gasped in pleasure, moving his hand to the back of Moriarty’s head and clutching the criminal closer to him. He hissed and gasped in pain as their torsos were pressed together, the pain somehow making him even more aroused. His fingers fumbled at Moriarty’s waist and he shoved his hand underneath the criminal’s shirt and jacket, his body and mind aching for more contact.  
Moriarty removed his mouth and Sherlock’s hand and looked wildly into the detective’s eyes, his own blown wide with lust.  
“Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. Such impatience. But just remember, darling,” he said dangerously, his pulse pounding beneath Sherlock’s fingers. “You are mine.” He pressed his fingers against the detective’s stab wound, causing the other man to cry out. “I own you.”  
He reattached his mouth to Sherlock’s and moved his hand from the taller man’s shoulder to his chest, pushing him back against the floor and straddling him, laying against his chest to keep their mouths connected.   
“Now,” Moriarty said in a breathy, dominating voice, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “What is it that you want, Sherlock Holmes?”  
Sherlock’s hands went to Moriarty’s waist and tried to pull him closer, but the criminal stopped him and brutally slapped his face.  
“Talk to me, Sherlock. What do you want?” The vibrations of his voice sent electric bolts of lust through the detective’s body, collecting in his throbbing and straining erection.  
“Come on, Sherlock,” Moriarty said persuasively, pressing his body tighter and gaining a moan of pain from the other man.  
“You,” Sherlock mewled reluctantly, his eyes closed, head turned away from Moriarty.  
“I’m sorry, what was that?” the criminal asked with a sickly sweetness. “What do you want?”  
“You,” Sherlock said more forcefully, looking challengingly into the criminal’s eyes.  
Without warning, Sherlock flipped them over and attacked Moriarty’s mouth with his own, pinning the criminal’s hands above his head. He used one hand to tear open Moriarty’s shirt and ran his hands hungrily over the other man’s torso. He ran his hand lower to Moriarty’s waist and began palming the criminal through his trousers.  
Moriarty moaned into the detective’s mouth and moves his hips up into Sherlock’s hand. He bit down hard on Sherlock’s lower lip and flipped them back around when the detective yelped in pain.  
“Remember who’s in charge here, love,” Moriarty whispered intently before moving down the detective’s body, biting and nipping as he went, digging his teeth into Sherlock’s injuries.  
Keeping eye contact with the detective, the criminal removed the other man’s shoes and socks, loving the mewls of desire and need escaping the detective’s lips. He took a moment to remove his own shoes, socks, shirt, and jacket before removing the detective’s trousers and tossing them aside. He stared hungrily at Sherlock’s massively tented pants and slowly ran one finger down his erection as the other man moaned, whimpered, and writhed beneath him.  
“Please,” he choked out, his head turned away as if in shame, his hands fisted by his sides.  
“Please what?” Moriarty asked teasingly, his fingers dancing over the detective’s restrained cock.  
Sherlock seemed to be in physical pain from being forced to bend to the criminal’s will, his jaw tightly clenched, tears of need forcing their way out of his eyes.  
The criminal dug his nails into Sherlock’s side and said with a deadly power, “Please what, Sherlock?”  
“Please… I need you. Please… get inside me,” Sherlock said with a painful reluctance, now actively crying, the uninjured side of his head pressed against the floor.  
“Well, since you asked so nicely.”  
Moriarty removed the detective’s pants and Sherlock gasped as the cool air hit his hot, feverish cock. The criminal stared ravenously at the detective’s cock and, tired of his own cock straining against his trousers, he stood up and quickly shed his trousers and pants.  
Kneeling back down, Moriarty ghosted his fingers delicately over the detective’s dick before roughly grabbing it. Sherlock practically screamed in pain and lust and need and reached out with one of his hands, desperately seeking contact with Moriarty.  
After working on Sherlock’s cock for a bit longer, Moriarty put his hand under the detective’s thighs and shoved them up and to the other man’s chest. He climbed on top of him and wound the fingers of one hand in the detective’s curls while he positioned his cock with the other.   
“Are you ready, Sherlock?” he purred into the detective’s ear.  
Sherlock nodded jerkily, his eyes closed, arms draped across Moriarty’s shoulders.  
Moriarty shoved his dry cock into Sherlock’s hole and the detective screamed in pain, tears streaming from his eyes.  
“Oh, suck it up,” Moriarty yelled over Sherlock’s screaming, pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in.  
The criminal continued with his brutal, punishing pace, slamming into the detective over and over and Sherlock actually thought that the criminal might split him in two. But despite the intense agonizing burning and the blood he knew he was leaking, Sherlock could feel himself getting closer and closer to his release. He dug his nails into the criminals back as obscene moans poured out of his throat.  
Moriarty moved one hand to Sherlock’s cock and pumped the detective in time with his thrusts.  
“Harder,” Sherlock gasped.  
“Gladly,” Moriarty panted, pounding even harder and faster into the detective.  
Before long, Sherlock gave an almost painful scream as his orgasm slammed into him with the force of a tidal wave, his cock practically exploding, hot cum spilling over the criminal’s hand and both of their stomachs.  
Moriarty continued pounding into the spent detective and not two minutes later, his entire body tensed and his seed poured into the detective. He moved feebly inside Sherlock for a while longer before pulling out and watching the blood and semen trickle out of the detective’s arse.  
“Now,” he said once he’d regained his breath, leaning back down, his face a couple of inches from Sherlock’s. “Who’s better; me or your precious Dr Watson?”  
Sherlock responded by sinking his teeth into Moriarty’s shoulder. The criminal cried out and jabbed a needle into the detective’s neck. Sherlock immediately released Moriarty and struggled to fight back as his body was encased in thick, black quicksand, the blackness quickly encroaching on and overwhelming his mind.  
“Nighty night, Sherlock,” Moriarty whispered as the detective fell into the blackness and let it encase him in unconsciousness. 

I hope you all enjoyed that as much as torture and kind of forced Sheriarty can be enjoyed. Sorry for the relatively long wait, but, you know, work. Anyway, there’s probably gonna be only a couple more chapters. And if there are any typos, please forgive me.   
Don’t forget to check out my other stuff on this site and follow me on Tumblr (my username is futurdavies). Please review and tell me what you think. And if you have anything else that you wanna talk about, feel free to use me as a therapist or friend. Tell me how you guys are doing, ‘cause I really do care. And, yeah, *huggles*.


	17. Taking Over Me

Chapter Seventeen: Taking Over Me

 

John and the Scotland Yard had been working for an hour and there’d still been no sign of Sherlock. John’s stomach was being violently twisted by the snakes of worry that had invaded his insides. He nervously twisted his fingers and rubbed at his hair and licked his lips, struggling to keep from screaming aloud in frustration. He’d even begun limping again from the stress.  
They were breaking into their seventh warehouse and the instant the door was open, John was inside, running around, frantically calling Sherlock’s name and looking around.  
“John,” Lestrade called from a door that was held shut with a padlock and chain.  
John hurried over as one of the men began picking the lock, finally getting it open after a few anxiety-ridden minutes. He removed the chain and John shoved the door open, his heart and breath freezing along with his body at the sight before him.  
Sherlock was lying unconscious and naked on the hard, cold floor, blood soaking his chest, the right side of his face, his side, and arse. Even though he was on his side and nothing except his arse was really visible, John wanted to cover Sherlock with something, a blanket or jumper. John didn’t—couldn’t—move a muscle for an eternity in which he refused to believe that Sherlock could be harmed in such a way.  
“Oh, my god,” one of the officers murmured behind him.  
The man’s words jerked John out of his paralysis and the doctor ran over to his detective, stripping off his jumper and placing it over the detective’s waist.  
“Sherlock, Sherlock, can you hear me?” John asked desperately, patting Sherlock’s cheeks and checking for his pulse, giving a sigh of relief when he felt a heartbeat, weak and stringy, but still there.  
“John, is he okay?” Lestrade asked in concern, kneeling beside John and looking at Sherlock with worry and confusion.  
“He’s alive,” John replied. He started to turn Sherlock onto his back, but stopped when he realised that doing so would only hurt the detective only more. “But he needs immediate medical attention.”  
“On its way,” Lestrade assured, now looking at John.  
“This stab wound is deep,” John continued, bending to examine Sherlock’s side. “His organs should be fine, but he’s still in danger of bleeding out. Especially with his head wound, the cuts on his chest, and…” John trailed off, knowing that Lestrade knew what he meant, before clearing his throat and continuing.  
“His pulse is weak but regular, his breathing shallow but also normal. His eyes look mostly fine and he’s been drugged with something, probably chloroform,” John said, looking at Sherlock’s slightly vein-riddled eyes.  
“Here.” One of Lestrade’s men handed John a t-shirt wetted with bottled water and John set about gently clearing the blood from the detective’s face and chest.  
John felt Sherlock tense as the cloth made contact with broken skin and John tried to soothe the other man, gently petting his hair.  
“Well, isn’t this sentimental.”  
Instantly recognising Moriarty’s voice, John immediately sprang up and turned around, trying and failing to find the psychopath.  
“Oh, relax, John,” Moriarty said, his voice coming from everywhere at once. “I’m speaking through the intercom, for which I possess a separate device. For all you know, I could be in another country by now.”  
“What? Too scared to face me?” John violently spat, fists clenched so tightly his hands were shaking, his entire body pulsing with pure hatred, his blood a violent fire screaming for revenge.  
“No, no, no, not fear, John,” Moriarty said easily, his poisonous voice only slightly distorted by the intercom. “Self-preservation. Like I said before, wrong time to die.”  
“So then you know that I would kill you if you were here,” John said, his own voice trembling with fury.  
“Oh, please,” the criminal said, offended by John’s words. “It’s Sherlock. Of course I know that you would try to kill me if I were there.”  
“I’ll do more than try to kill you,” John growled, looking around in lieu of being able to glare blades at the criminal. “You seem to forget that I’m a soldier and I’ve killed people before.”  
“You seem to forget that I’m the world’s only consulting criminal and I regularly tear people apart,” Moriarty retorted, arrogance plain in his voice.   
“Well, if you’re so confident that I wouldn’t be able to hurt you, then why are you hiding behind the intercom like a coward?” John demanded bitingly.  
“Mostly because I don’t want to have to deal with the tedious chore of going all the way back there and rendering you and everyone else unconscious. Now be a good boy and tend to Sherlock. And I should probably mention that he’ll slip into a coma in, oh, five minutes and he’ll die in thirty unless you get him medical attention.”  
“Lestrade, where the hell is that ambulance?” John cried in panic after a beat of stunned disbelief.  
“Oh, now that’s just insulting,” Moriarty said calmly as Lestrade’s people frantically made phone calls. “I mean, really, John, do you seriously think that I lack the capability to delay an ambulance?”   
“I swear to god if it’s the last thing I do, I will kill you,” John snarled, trembling with pure black hatred, his vision going slightly blurry with rage.  
“Promises, promises,” Moriarty purred before a click sounded as the criminal disconnected.  
John ran back to Sherlock and tried desperately to wake the detective, monitoring his heart and respiration rate until the ambulance finally arrived. The paramedics tried to keep John out of the ambulance, but the ex-army doctor immediately pulled rank and informed them that he was Sherlock’s primary physician and was going to be in charge.   
When they got to the hospital, Sherlock was indeed in a coma and John had to pull rank again so that he could head Sherlock’s surgical team. He quickly but efficiently sewed up Sherlock’s side, after making sure that no organs were harmed, while an entire medical team analysed Sherlock’s blood to discover what kind of poison Moriarty had used. They finally got results fifteen minutes after Sherlock’s admittance and quickly constructed an antidote. Before they could get the antidote into Sherlock, the detective’s heart stopped and John shocked him five times and had almost given up when the heart monitor started beeping again.  
With a massive sigh of relief, John continued his work, sewing up Sherlock’s head and bandaging his side and chest. The unconscious detective was then moved into a room and John went to clean himself and change out of his surgical clothes and back into this street clothes. He went to Sherlock’s bedside and was surprised to see Molly checking the detective’s vitals.  
“Molly, what are you doing here?” John asked curiously, standing beside the smaller doctor. “I thought you worked in the morgue.”  
“Things are a bit slow today,” Molly explained in a strained voice, not looking at John and only occasionally really looking at Sherlock. “And Dr Freeman thought it’d be best if I were the one to deal with Sherlock when he wakes up.”  
John heard the crack in the young doctor’s voice and walked closer, gently placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.  
“He will wake up,” John said confidently and intently, struggling to hide his own fear.  
Molly nodded and went back to Sherlock’s machines, checking them before inspecting the detective’s bandages.  
“What happened?” she asked in fear and disbelief.  
John sighed and sank down into the chair beside Sherlock’s bed, holding his head in his hands for a moment before replying, “Moriarty.”  
“The psychopathic criminal? Your blog,” Molly added at John’s curious look.  
“Yeah,” John said, nodding. “God knows how long Sherlock was with him, but it doesn’t really matter now, since we have no way of finding him.”  
They were silent for a long time while Molly re-examined Sherlock’s bandaged wounds and his vitals.   
“You know, I never actually thought it was possible for Sherlock to be injured,” Molly said after some time, lightly stroking the hair above Sherlock’s head injury. “I mean, he just always seemed so invincible.”   
“No one’s invincible,” John said with the kind of helplessness that comes from knowing a tragic truth.  
“I know, I just… I don’t know. I guess I just never considered that there might be something he couldn’t bounce back from,” Molly said tenderly, looking at Sherlock with such love and vulnerability that John had to look away.  
“’You’ll live for as long as you live, and once you stop living, you don’t have to worry about staying alive anymore because you’ll be dead’,” Mycroft said from the doorway, startling them both and causing Molly to pull her hand away from Sherlock’s hair. “Sebastyne Young.”  
“Mycroft, what are you doing here?” John asked as Molly focused on the machines and papers and didn’t look at either of them.  
“Really, John?” Mycroft said, all traces of hardness arrogance and superiority absent as he slid his eyes to his prone and unconscious brother. “My little brother has just been drugged, tortured, and drugged again. Why wouldn’t I be here?”  
“I’ll just go then,” Molly said awkwardly, walking to the door while not making eye contact with anyone.   
“You don’t have to go,” John said, feeling bad for the doctor who felt so out of place.  
“No, it’s fine,” Molly insisted, turning to look at John, her smile trembling with the unshed tears that she constantly and stoically locked behind a façade of acceptance. “I’ll just…give you guys some privacy.”  
With that, she left the room, leaving John and Mycroft to alternately stare at Sherlock and give each other fleeting glances.  
“Is he going to be okay, John?” Mycroft asked as he looked worriedly at his brother, his voice trembling slightly and betraying more vulnerability then the doctor had ever heard from him.  
John briefly debated whether or not to tell Mycroft about the apparent rape and decided that it would be best to keep it to himself, knowing that no one from Lestrade’s team would breathe a word about it.   
“He’ll be fine,” John said comfortingly, looking up at the elder Holmes. “The stab wound in his side didn’t pierce any organs and the cuts on his chest and hairline aren’t too deep. It’s really just a question of when he’ll wake up.”  
Mycroft slowly walked over to his brother and laid a slightly shaky hand on Sherlock’s head, gently and lovingly petting his hair.  
“Will he wake up, John?” The ice in Mycroft’s voice cracked and wisps of fear began trickling through, threatening to shatter the ice and overwhelm him.  
“Mycroft.” John waited until the older man looked at him before continuing. “It’s Sherlock. He’ll wake up.”  
Mycroft sighed deeply before pulling up a chair and sitting on the other side of Sherlock’s bed.  
“You know, he was actually a lot worse before you met him,” Mycroft said after a moment.  
“What you do mean?”  
“Before he met you, Sherlock was even more arrogant and insulting then he is now,” Mycroft clarified, keeping his eyes on his little brother.  
“I didn’t know that was possible,” John said with an attempt at levity.  
Mycroft gave an automatic little chuckle and smile fondly, stroking Sherlock’s hair with a kind of protectiveness.  
“I was beginning to think that Sherlock would never find anyone,” he mused, his eyes falling into the past, more just talking than talking to John. “Sherlock was so superior and uncaring that I thought there wasn’t a single person who would be able to put up with him. Everyone he encountered, he did everything possible to make them feel like less of a person, despite any negative ramifications that may come to pass.”  
“Yeah, he’s really changed,” John said sarcastically, leaning forward to put his forearms on his knees.  
Mycroft smiled and continued petting Sherlock.  
“You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, but people like Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and his family can clearly see a difference. He’s just a bit softer, more tolerant, more patient. Being around you, he cares a bit more, he’s a bit more human. You’ve proved to him that not everyone is selfish and ignorant. You’ve given him something to live for, John.”  
The doctor looked down and didn’t reply, unable to believe that he could actually help Sherlock in any way.  
“But I’m not anything special,” he finally said, shaking his head and looking up at Mycroft, his mind refusing to accept what the other man was telling him.  
“You’re normal, John. Normalcy is the one thing that Sherlock never got to experience and you fascinate him with your normal rules and rituals.”  
“So I’m his experiment?” John asked incredulously, though he found that explanation a lot easier to believe than Sherlock needing him.  
“At first, yes,” Mycroft said calmly, apathetic of any offence he might have made John feel. “But—and this is only guesswork, since my dear brother doesn’t exactly discuss his emotions—as time went on, he began to care about you. And Sherlock caring about someone is quite a significant achievement, since the only people he previously cared about were Mrs Hudson, some of our relatives, and occasionally me.  
“John,” he said intently, leaning forward and placing his forearms on his knees, his back ramrod straight, “you brought him to life. You with your kindness and compassion, you gave him hope. And the fact that you’re the only one who can be around him for more than two hours completely sober doesn’t hurt,” Mycroft added, smiling and leaning back.  
They both chuckled for a moment before two young boys burst into the room.  
“What happened? Is he okay?” Simon demanded frantically of his father and John, Devon standing behind him.  
“He’s fine,” John said reassuringly.  
“How did you even know he was harmed?” Mycroft asked his son, his eyes suspiciously flicking to Devon.  
Simon looked to his father and held up his handheld. “I have a program that alerts me if Uncle Sherlock is admitted into a hospital for any reason.”  
“How in the world did you do that?” John asked in amazed curiosity.  
“And who exactly is he?” Mycroft asked, looking at Devon.  
“He’s my Watson,” Simon explained hurriedly as the other boy cringed and squirmed behind him. “Anyway, what happened to Uncle Sherlock?”  
“He was kidnapped,” John said immediately, knowing that Simon could handle the information. “And tortured. By Moriarty.”  
Simon merely nodded, looking at the floor before looking up at his unconscious uncle.  
“Maybe you should kiss him,” Devon piped up after a while of silence, causing everyone to look at him in confusion.  
Devon immediately snapped his eyes away from John and firmly onto the floor, his cheeks burning pink. “I—I mean, I—I just thought that—You know, with fairy tales—Not that I’m saying this is funny. I wasn’t joking, I just—I mean, since you two are so—Not that I know you, I just—”  
“Devon?” Simon said calmly.  
“Yeah?” Devon asked sheepishly, looking at the other boy.  
“It’s okay. You can be quiet now,” Simon said comfortingly, patting his friend’s arm.  
“Why was I electrocuted?” Sherlock asked slowly and feebly from the bed, his eyes just barely open, hands twitching slightly.   
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed in joy, instantly springing to check the detective’s vitals, holding his wrist and shining a light into the taller man’s eyes.  
“Ow,” Sherlock moaned, weakly batting the doctor’s hands away.  
“How are you feeling, brother dear?” Mycroft asked pleasantly from his chair beside Sherlock.  
Sherlock started to sit up and John helped him after failing to coax the detective into staying down.  
“I was drugged and tortured by a psychopathic consulting criminal,” Sherlock drily told his brother as he continued batting away John’s fussing hands. “How do you think I feel?”  
“Your heart stopped,” Simon spoke up professionally, attracting the attention of the adults.   
“Ah, you’ve got your own John,” Sherlock noted approvingly, his voice a bit raspy.  
“Yeah, his name’s Devon,” Simon stated proudly as Sherlock accepted water given to him by John.   
“Good,” Sherlock said, his voice stronger and clearer. “He’ll keep you out of trouble.”  
“You sound like my dad,” Simon bemoaned, slightly disappointed.   
“I think he means I’ll keep you from smoking and doing drugs,” Devon said quietly to the smaller boy.  
“Oh,” Simon said understandingly, nodding his head.  
“Did you say my heart stopped?” Sherlock asked curiously.  
“Yeah,” Simon informed his uncle. “You came into the hospital with a stab wound, erratic heart rate, weak respiration rate, and lacerations all over your torso and one on your head.” He nodded to Sherlock’s head and the detective gently prodded the bandage on his forehead and temple.  
“Oh, well that’s pleasant,” he said with tired yet biting sarcasm as he lowered his hand.  
“The poison in your system caused cardiac arrest, but John managed to get your heart started again. Obviously,” Simon finished, crossing his thin arms over his bony chest.  
“How do you know all that?” John demanded incredulously.  
“I have my sources,” Simon said simply and cryptically.   
“Don’t look at me,” Devon said in response to Mycroft and John’s inquisitive stares. “I have no idea how he did that.”  
“Simon, go home,” Mycroft said firmly. “As you can see, your uncle is perfectly fine. There is no reason for you to be here.”  
“But—” Simon protested.  
“Home,” Mycroft repeated forcefully. “Now.”  
Simon groaned in frustration and began to turn around before he stopped and turned back, instantly confident and cocky.  
“No,” he said defiantly.   
“Excuse me?” Mycroft demanded in disbelief as Sherlock smiled at his nephew.   
“I said no,” Simon repeated. “You can’t make me do anything.”  
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Mycroft said threateningly, getting up and going to stand over his son. “I have complete control over the British government. Do you really think I lack the ability to physically transport you?”  
“Yes.” Simon held his head up high and didn’t shift his eyes from his father’s.  
“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock said tiredly, fiddling with the tube going into his hand. “Mycroft, if you can’t control me, then you can’t control him. And you should be praising him for his ability to access the hospital’s files, though it’s not like they’re really that well-guarded.”  
“Dear brother, I do believe I know how to raise my own child,” Mycroft replied with a forced, oily pleasantry.   
“Oh, obviously, since your son aspires to be me,” Sherlock said calmly, looking up at his brother.  
“Please don’t start,” John pleaded, running his hands over his hair. “It’s been a really long day and I really don’t wanna have to deal with your fighting.”  
“Go on home,” Sherlock said gently to Simon after a moment. “Get to know your John. Everything’s fine here.”  
Simon hesitated for a moment before turning and leading Devon out of the room, Molly entering just as they left.  
“Oh, you’re awake,” she said in surprise, looking at the detective. “That’s great. I mean, I knew you would wake up, but—”  
“Where is my clothing?” Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes a bit.  
“Uh—Umm, you—you didn’t—umm,” Molly stammered awkwardly, looking down at the floor.  
“Oh, right, I remember,” Sherlock said. “Well, I’ll just have to go home in a bed sheet.”  
“But couldn’t John just go and get you clothes?” Molly asked in confusion, slowly walking into the room to look at Sherlock’s chart.  
The detective checked the clock on his bedside table and saw that it was twenty one thirty.  
“It would be easier if John and I both went home tonight, rather than John going home, coming back, and both of us coming home.”  
“But you’re not leaving until tomorrow,” Molly said cautiously.  
“Of course I am,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.  
“And this is where I must take my leave,” Mycroft said hurriedly, getting up and looking at the two doctors. “John, thank you for everything you’ve done for my brother. You as well, Dr Hooper. I know all too well how hard it can be to be around Sherlock.”  
With that, the elder Holmes left the room, leaving the doctors to deal with his little brother.  
“John, I would appreciate it if we left soon,” Sherlock said easily, beginning to pull the surgical tape from his hand.   
“Stop that,” John instructed, slapping the detective’s hand away. “And no, Sherlock, we’re not going anywhere.”  
“You’ve just had surgery,” Molly put in as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. “Your heart stopped and the poison is still being flushed from your system. And on top of that, you’re slightly malnourished, which doesn’t exactly help your struggling heart. You need to stay here for another day at least.”  
“Molly, what is the reason for people remaining in the hospital after surgery?” Sherlock asked her as if speaking to a young, especially thick child.  
“So that we can monitor them,” Molly said obediently, disregarding the detective’s tone.  
“I live with a doctor,” Sherlock said condescendingly, though not in a cruel way. “He can monitor me at home.”  
“But—” Molly started to protest.  
“If you don’t let me go tonight, then I will irritate every doctor I see until you let me go,” Sherlock said, smiling sweetly at Molly.   
The young doctor was silent for a moment, staring in shock before turning and saying, “I’ll get the discharge papers.”  
“Must you?” John asked in exasperation once the other doctor had left the room.  
“Yes, I must,” Sherlock said self-appreciatively, sitting up straighter and unconsciously putting his hand to his side.  
John was silent for a moment, mulling over how to best broach the subject of Sherlock’s rape.  
“Sherlock—” he finally started, his voice sad, empathetic, cautious, and serious.  
“I think it best if we postpone that conversation until a later date, don’t you?” Sherlock said, looking at the door.  
John could hear the vulnerability and fear leaking through the cracks in Sherlock’s wall of calm, self-assumed arrogance. He could see the pain and confusion in the detective’s clenches muscles, his slightly shaking hands, and his slightly increased heart rate.  
Not wanting to push Sherlock, John just nodded and said, “Some other time, then.”  
Sherlock nodded in agreement, his eyes on the door.

So I’m hoping that the long chapter will make up for the long wait. If anything is inaccurate about hospital procedures and whatnot, please just overlook it or, if it really bugs you, then bite me. Oh, and the reason I used the same metaphor-ish thing for Mycroft and Sherlock’s voices is because they’re brothers, so they have the same-ish speech patterns. Anyway, comments always make my day just a little brighter. And don’t forget to check out my other stuff consisting of Kingdom Hearts, Harry Potter, Glee, Doctor Who, Torchwood, and quite possibly other stuff that I’m forgetting. I’ll post the last chapter as soon as I can, but until then, I bid you adieu. *Huggles*


	18. My Immortal

Anyway, this is gonna be the last chapter of The Education of Sherlock Holmes, but I do have another idea that I’ve mentioned before and I would work on when I had the time. So, this idea involves a badass villain chick named Roxanne Aries who is a bipolar schizophrenic with suicidal tendencies who only wants to destroy the world and sets off a bomb in a ladies’ bathroom for no particular reason. Interested? 

Chapter Eighteen: My Immortal

John got out of the cab and walked up to the door, craving a good cuppa after a long day at work.  
“So how many times did he try today?” he asked with amused curiosity.  
“Only eight,” Thompson replied with a smile.  
The day after John and Sherlock had come home from the hospital, John had made sure that Sherlock was okay before going out to work and finding a tall, muscular man sitting at a café table near the door. Not thinking anything of it, John went to work and came home to discover the same man sitting in the same place. He had gone up to the man and had calmly asked him how long he’d been there. He immediately informed John that his name was Thompson and that he and about thirty other men had been appointed by Mycroft to watch the exits of 221B and the surrounding buildings to make sure that Sherlock didn’t go anywhere. In the two weeks that they’d been home, Sherlock had averaged nine escape attempts every day, all thwarted by the numerous guards, the only reason being the large number of guards and the fact that Sherlock’s body was still sensitive.  
“And when will you guys be set free?” John inquired conversationally.  
“Another week,” Thompson answered easily. “But it’s fine. I don’t mind watching Sherlock and making sure he doesn’t go anywhere. Though I have no idea how you can live with him.”  
“It’s not always easy,” John admitted, smiling.  
“Seems like that’d be an understatement. Anyway, you should probably go on up; Sherlock starts to raise hell whenever you’re late.”  
“Doesn’t he always. Well, you go get some rest,” John advised.  
“Thank you. Now I can go down to the pub and tell Mycroft it was doctor’s orders.”  
John smiled and walked into the flat.  
“Hello, dearie,” Mrs Hudson said as he shut the door, her voice pleasant and welcoming with a touch of the long-suffering that came with being around Sherlock Holmes.   
“Good afternoon, Mrs Hudson,” John greeted warmly. “How was your day?”  
“It’s been good. Sherlock’s missed you,” she said as John went to help her with her groceries.  
“Has he really?” John asked incredulously, for even though he knew that they loved each other, it still made him feel special whenever Sherlock expressed affection towards him.  
“Of course he has,” Mrs Hudson said matter-of-factly as they finished putting away her groceries. “Now go and see him. You know Sherlock shouldn’t be left alone for very long.”  
“Right. Thanks.” Mrs Hudson smiled at John as the doctor turned and went up the stairs.  
Sherlock was lying on the sofa in his normal position, eyes closed, hands steepled beneath his chin.  
“How are you feeling?” John asked as he closed the door and removed his shoes.  
Sherlock didn’t respond and the doctor went up to him and repeated the question before he realised that the detective was in his mind palace. John carefully examined the scar on the side of Sherlock’s head and gently ran his finger over the slightly puffed-up skin before moving the detective’s sides and pressing his fingers to the other man’s chest. He could just feel the scars that Moriarty had left and he pulled down the collar of Sherlock’s shirt to look at the scars on the detective’s chest. Like his head, the scars on his chest were slightly puffy and a dark red and still scabbed.   
John took a minute to examine all the wounds he could get to before fixing Sherlock’s collar and moving down to the detective’s waist, sitting down on the coffee table as he did so. He pushed up the detective’s shirt to examine his stab wound and saw that the bandage hadn’t been changed in all the time he’d been gone.  
He sighed and took his medical kit out of his bag, internally cursing Sherlock for not being able to take care of himself. He gently peeled off the medical tape and winced at how red and swollen the wound was, pus lightly covering the bandage and wound.   
“Dammit, Sherlock,” John said quietly, putting aside the bandage and uncapping the bottle of alcohol.  
“John?” Sherlock asked in confusion, looking up at the other man. “What’s going on?”  
“I’m changing your bandage because you are a child who doesn’t know how to take care of himself,” John said calmly and without malice as he poured some alcohol on Sherlock’s side.  
“Ow!!!” Sherlock cried, jumping away from the stinging pain.  
“Oh, stop moving,” John said easily, shifting Sherlock’s hips before going back to cleaning the wound.  
“I lost track of time,” Sherlock offered after a moment, his hands going back to underneath his chin.  
“You lost track of time so much that it just never occurred to you that you should change the bandage on your pus-covered, swollen stab wound?” John asked in disbelief while applying antibiotic ointment.  
“Yup,” Sherlock replied simply, his eyes closed again.  
“What have you been doing all day, anyway?” John asked in curiosity as he taped down a fresh bandage.   
“Composing, brooding, going through your possessions,” Sherlock said simply.   
“Okay, we’re gonna have to work so that this doesn’t get infected and—You went through my possessions?!” John demanded in shocked anger.  
“I don’t understand why you’re so surprised,” Sherlock said calmly, not looking at his doctor. “It’s not as if I actually respect your personal property.”  
“Well, I mean, even though I’m used to you going through my e-mails, I just didn’t think you’d actually get the urge to go through my stuff,” John explained as he put his things back into his medical bag.   
“Oh, I’ve gotten the urge quite a lot. It’s only these last two weeks that I’ve acted on said urge.”  
“Uh-huh,” John said, still simmering but no longer explosively angry. “And did you find anything interesting?”  
“The magazines beneath your loose floorboards were interesting in that you attempted to hide them, but boring in themselves,” Sherlock replied calmly, his words causing John to freeze in shock.  
“And why did you decide to look beneath my floorboards?” John asked with a forced calm.  
“John, do you seriously think that I don’t know every inch of this flat?” Sherlock asked indignantly, looking at the doctor without moving his head or hands. “I know which floorboards are loose and given that you’ve lived here for quite some time and you’re not blindingly oblivious, it’s only logical that you would find the loose floorboard and then proceed to hide something that you would want to keep private.”  
“You know,” John started, his voice hard and restrained, “usually, when someone tries to hide something, their friend respects their privacy.”  
“Is there anything usual about our relationship?” Sherlock questioned, his eyes closed, hands folded on his stomach.   
“No, but you could respect my privacy on occasion,” John said with less force.  
“I could, but then I wouldn’t be me.”   
John went to put up his medical supplies and went into the kitchen to make some tea. While the kettle was boiling, John moved to the doorway and gazed at his detective lying on the couch. He had never really thought about how close he’d come to losing the man, but standing there, waiting for the kettle, it hit him just how lucky he was. Sherlock’s heart had stopped and John had still brought him back. When John had heard the heart monitor flat lining, his own heart had stopped. He realised now that he couldn’t imagine life without Sherlock.  
Before he’d met the detective, he’d been lonely, lost and drifting. He’d had to force himself to get up every day and every time he’d looked at his gun, he’d thought of just ending it all. And then he’d met Sherlock. He smiled at the memory of their first meeting, at how sad and ignorant he’d been. From the first word Sherlock had said to him, he knew that he wanted to be around the detective as much as possible. He had healed John in so many ways besides his limp, and he probably didn’t even realise it.  
John thought about what Mycroft had told him about Sherlock being softer and kinder and thought that maybe they were meant to be together. Maybe it was fate or destiny that brought them together. Maybe it was the god that John didn’t know if he believed in. But whatever the reason, John knew that here, with Sherlock, was where he belonged. They say that home is where the heart is and since John’s heart belonged to the detective, he supposed his home was wherever Sherlock was.   
The squealing of the tea kettle brought John out of his reverie and he went back into the kitchen. He brought the two cups of tea into the living room and placed on the coffee table. He noticed that Sherlock’s arm was dangling off the couch and he moved up the detective’s sleeve to find three nicotine patches on his pale skin.  
“Sherlock,” he moaned in frustration, kneeling down to remove the patches.  
“I need to think,” Sherlock explained, pulling his arm away from John.  
“What part of ‘your body is vulnerable’ do you not understand?” John demanded, making another grab for Sherlock’s arm.  
“I understand it perfectly well. I just choose to ignore it,” Sherlock replied, again pulling his arm out of the doctor’s grip.  
He curled up into a ball, his back to John, and the doctor ran his hands over his hair.  
“Sherlock, will you please just let me take care of you?” John nearly pleaded.  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock insisted, his voice slightly muffled by the cushions.   
John sighed and lightly smacked Sherlock’s side, causing the detective to give a sharp yelp of pain.  
“Yeah, you’re totally fine,” John said sarcastically.  
“You know, I took care of myself just fine before you moved in,” Sherlock commented, unconsciously putting a hand to his side.  
“A fact which never ceases to amaze me,” John said drily, picking up one of the cups of tea. “Now roll over and drink this.”  
The detective remained still for a moment before groaning and rolling over. He carefully took the tea, blew on it, and began sipping it while John began sipping his own tea.  
“Anything on the website?” John wasn’t really going to let Sherlock do anything too strenuous, he just needed something to say.  
“Nothing of interest,” Sherlock replied, setting his tea on the table and lying back, his eyes closed. “Mostly just idiots whining about their pets disappearing or money being stolen or their relative being murdered.”  
“Murders are fun. Did I seriously just say that?” John marvelled, slightly shocked by his response.  
“Not when the answer is blindingly obvious,” Sherlock bemoaned.  
“So did you actually help anyone, or did you just complain about how stupid they are?”  
“Both,” Sherlock replied, smiling.  
“Sherlock…” John started nervously, putting his cup down beside the detective’s. “That conversation that we were gonna have?”  
“Yes?” Sherlock asked calmly, not opening his eyes.  
John hesitated a moment, his eyes on the floor, as he tried to decide how he should phrase his question.   
“What… What happened? With Moriarty?” he finally asked nervously, his eyes on his intertwined hands.  
“I should think that the state you found me in would give you a clear idea of what happened,” Sherlock replied, his voice calm and confident with just the slightest harsh undertone.  
“Well, yes, but… Maybe you need to talk about it,” John suggested hesitantly, looking back to Sherlock’s face.  
The detective was silent, his expression inscrutable.  
“John, don’t attempt to treat me as if I’m a normal person,” he ordered firmly, eyes still closed. “I am not the same as everyone else. I don’t need your psychoanalysis.”  
It struck John just how alone Sherlock felt he had to be. Even if there were people ready and willing to help him, the detective felt he had to deal with everything on his own.  
Without thinking about it, John reached out and gently twined his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, causing the detective to tense up.   
“John, what are you doing?” he asked in confusion, opening his eyes and looking at his doctor.  
“What, I can sleep with you, but I’m not allowed to pet your hair?” John questioned, his voice worry painted over with light-heartedness.  
Sherlock just looked down at his hands uncertainly as John kept his hand where it was, losing himself in the silky softness.  
“You’re not alone, Sherlock,” he said intently after a moment, moving his hand to the detective’s cheek. “I’ll always be here for you.”  
Sherlock took a shaky breath before looking up at John with the raw and unguarded emotion that the doctor had come to refer to as his look.   
“John, I…” He swallowed and looked down before continuing. “I’m afraid.”  
John was stunned into silence for a moment, unable to believe that Sherlock could really feel fear.  
“Afraid of what?” he finally asked as he gently stroked Sherlock’s cheeks, his voice tender and loving.   
Sherlock bit his bottom lip and hesitated before forcing himself to say, “Moriarty.”  
“Moriarty? But Sherlock, you’re better than him, stronger than him. Surely you know that.”  
“John, he… What he did to me, I… I’ve never been that vulnerable, John. I just…I couldn’t control anything. My mind and body were his. I was his puppet.” Sherlock’s voice trembled on the last word, his facial muscles twitching as he looked at the ceiling and tried not to cry.  
“Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe,” John soothed, moving onto the floor and pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s, his hands on the detective’s face. “You’re safe. I’ll never let him touch you again.”  
Sherlock gave a strangled laugh, tears leaking out of his eyes, his hands going to the back of John’s head and caressing his neck.  
“I never thought that an army doctor would be offering to protect me.”  
“And I never thought I’d be offering to protect a high-functioning sociopath,” John replied with a little chuckle, using his thumbs to wipe away Sherlock’s tears.  
“I love you, John.” Sherlock’s face froze in a shocked expression, shocked by his own words.  
He thought about it for a moment and his expression changed and became confident, his eyes and voice sure as he repeated himself. “I love you, John Watson.”  
“And I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John answered, smiling in love as he pressed his lips to the detective’s.   
Sherlock deepened the kiss, pulling John closer and wrapping one arm around his doctor’s shoulders. John moved one hand into Sherlock’s curls and slid the other one to the side of the detective’s neck, feeling his strong, rapid pulse. Sherlock opened his mouth and John slowly but intently slid his tongue into the detective’s tea-and-spice flavoured mouth. He gently wrapped his tongue around Sherlock’s while moving his hand down to the detective’s uninjured side and slipped his hand under the taller man’s shirt.  
Not breaking the kiss, Sherlock shifted to the edge of the couch and reached down to grab John’s hips, pulling the smaller man on top of him. They both separated for air and to remove their shirts, John gasping a bit at Sherlock’s scar-riddled torso. He traced the first few scars with shaky fingers before looking back up into his detective’s eyes.   
Sherlock looked back at John with anxiety and uncertainty and something else he had never experienced before: doubt in himself. He didn’t know what he should do, what John wanted, what he wanted.   
Seeing his uncertainty, John leaned down, being careful not to make contact with Sherlock’s chest or side, and gently pressed his lips back to the detective’s. Sherlock’s hands travelled to John’s tight arse and pulled him closer, their groins grinding together.  
John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, his forearms on the sofa, fingers in the detective’s hair. He began rolling his hips against Sherlock’s craving the blessed friction he had been denied for so long. His mouth moved to the detective’s long neck and he began nibbling on it just a bit, the way he knew Sherlock liked it. Sherlock moaned in desire and pushed his hands into his doctor’s trousers, clutching almost desperately at his smooth skin.  
John sat up, still straddling Sherlock’s waist, and removed his socks. Maintaining eye contact with the other man, John removed his belt and tossed it away, Sherlock’s hands on his hips. John looked down worriedly at Sherlock’s newly-bandaged side and lightly ghosted his fingers across the bandage, unsure of whether or not he should go all the way with Sherlock while the detective was still injured. Sure, he was mostly healed, but his side still needed recovery and stressing Sherlock’s body didn’t exactly qualify as recovery.  
“Fine,” Sherlock said impatiently.  
Before John could ask what he meant, the detective rolled them over and pinned John to the floor, his face barely a centimetre from John’s.  
“People on your blog are always saying I should be on top anyway.” His warm breath danced over John’s skin, making the doctor shiver and squirm with desire.  
Sherlock moved backwards down John’s legs and removed his trousers and pants before standing and removing his own pyjama trousers and pants. He sank back down onto John’s waist and laid on top of him, putting his hands on the doctor’s shoulders and attaching his mouth to the smaller man’s neck. Their bare cocks rubbed together and John wrapped his arms around the detective’s shoulders, pulling him closer.   
John pulled Sherlock’s mouth back to his as they desperately rutted against each other, the need to be connected burning a powerful flame in their every motion.  
Sherlock quickly moved back and shoved John’s legs up to his chest. He reached under the sofa and grabbed the bottle of lube, hurriedly lathering his fingers and his burning cock.  
“No, no, no, I’m fine. Just get inside me,” John breathed when Sherlock pushed a finger into him.  
“John, are you sure?” the detective asked, fighting the temptation to wildly have his way with the doctor.  
“I’m sure,” John panted, looking up at Sherlock with blown pupils, the colour of his eyes almost completely obliterated.  
Sherlock hesitated a moment before removing his finger and slowly inserting his hard, hot dick. John hissed with pain, but pulled Sherlock closer, encouraging him to go deeper. When he was finally all the way in, he paused to let John adjust, their foreheads pressed firmly together.  
“Oh, g—Oh, god, Sherlock,” John panted, digging his nails into the detective’s back. “Oh, god, you…”  
“You feel incredible,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes and voice completely at peace.  
“Move. Please.” It came out like a beg, but John was beyond caring.  
Sherlock readily complied, moving his hips forward, slowly at first, but then faster and faster until he was slamming into John, his balls smacking against the doctor’s skin.  
As they moved together, the only thing that could be heard were their moans and cries and the sounds of skin on skin, burning fire coiling in the pits of their stomachs. They held each other tightly, needing the blessed burn, and John gasped into Sherlock’s mouth as he came, the clenching of his muscles bringing the detective over the edge.  
Sherlock pulled out of John and lay beside him, both of them sweating and panting. They gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes, gently stroking each other’s faces and bodies, and never wanted to move again.  
“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John said as he floated on clouds of bliss.  
“And I love you, John Watson,” Sherlock replied, smiling and placing a delicate kiss on his doctor’s nose, knowing in his heart that as long as he had John, everything would be all right. 

 

FINALLY. FINALLY. DONE. YES. I’m kidding, I’m not really that excited that this is over, I just love the feeling of finishing a project. Again, I’m sorry this took so long to update (and please disregard any typos), but I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think of this story and my idea for another story and don’t forget to follow me on Tumblr (my URL there is futuredavies). I love you all and I am honoured that you all have stayed with me this long. And feel free to check out my other stuff on this site. Oh, and if you get tired of me, go read taylorpotato’s The Taming of John Watson. That shit’s magical.   
Again, I love you all and always remember that you are beautiful and special and there will always be someone who loves you. No matter what happens, there is always hope and there are always people who are willing to help you. You are not alone.


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